


Under the Mountain

by TreacherousThoughts



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Underfell, Attempted Murder, Background Relationships, Blood, Child Murder, Dissociation, F/F, F/M, Familiars, Haphephobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Minor Original Character(s), Non-Binary Frisk, Parent W. D. Gaster, Possession, Post-Canon, Post-Game(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Privilege, Reader Is Not Chara, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader-Insert, Speciesism, Sporadic Updates, Suicide Attempt, Undertale Monsters on the Surface
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 107,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8867578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacherousThoughts/pseuds/TreacherousThoughts
Summary: Eight years after being forcefully stolen away from your family home with your tutor, you're still trying to force the scars to heal from the most traumatic incident of your life. You have an apartment of your very own. You have a job. You're on speaking terms with your parents-mostly. But nothing is changing. You still wake feeling the earth pressing in, gasping for breath, just wanting it to end-.But then you meet a monster with a terrifying grin and an even more terrifying repertoire of jokes, and you learn that when it comes to the path of recovery, you don't have to walk it alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What, what, what am I doing?  
> I'm certainly not giving into temptation and writing a random Underfell themed story. When I think of the Reader-character Viktor Nikiforov is certainly not their face claim, not for me, personally. I'm not building a playlist. I've not thought of an outline. That would be absurd!

The local Cosmo Cafe has all the markings of a modern coffee shop: a half moon matte counter top with a glass cabinet displaying a plethora of baked goods strategically placed by the cash register, the latest hit from Ted Arheen is playing over the speakers a tad loader then the hour called, and all of the seating options consist of tall tables with small, thin stools that are chic in design, but not at all made with the girth of a six foot tall skeleton monster in mind.  

If you had come into the coffee shop and happened to catch a glance of him immediately from behind, you could have very well mistaken him for being a typical human. A few seconds later you would have noticed the thick boned legs that stretch out from a pair of black basketball shorts, their primary color and yellow stripes matching up perfectly with the fur hooded jacket that dons his shoulders. But as it happens, when you entered he was as he is now as you stand in line, the monster slouching over his phone, scowling at the device with every tooth sharpened to a wicked point, and the lights in his eyes dancing a vivid red.  

You would have been curious as to what had him so offended, well you are still interested a smidgen, but that doesn't even compare to the sheer astonishment that you feel about  _his very existence_. You are used to monsters, they have been a normal enough sight in the past eight months since the military had conceded in letting them down from their temporary settlement by the mountain, and it has been a full year since the Emergence occurred, period.  

Everyone could honestly say where and what they were doing when that bit of news hit the headlines, the one about holy Godzilla on a Treadmill monsters are real and so is magic? And monsters come in all shapes in sizes, from King Dreemurr's mighty height of a whopping 9 feet to Hotman, who is maybe 3' 5'' on his most irritable days when he mans the newsstand you pass on the way home sometimes. There is also the fact that some monsters have multiple arms, legs, and heads, or none at all, the glob monster with his twisted mustache that you often saw at Hotman's stand being a perfect example of the latter.  

But this one, he is by far the most unique that you have ever seen, and all because he may as well be a cousin of the Grim Reaper, one of the most well-known human legends of all time! 

It is probably the blatant staring, combined with that little voice in everyone's head that speaks up when if feels like their on the receiving end of such an obviously rude action, but the monster's lamplight eyes suddenly swivel to meet yours, two hundred plus pounds of irritation dampened only slightly by the question that was probably on his mind at that moment:  _what the heck is their_ _problem?_  

"Excuse me," a chipper voice curiously intones next to you, and your fringe whips in the air as you turn your head, and you suddenly notice that you're in fact first in line. "What would you like today?" 

"My apologies," you say smoothly and yet sincerely, feeling slightly abashed for your diverted attention, and on someone who's no doubt waiting for the morning to be over with, no less. You go through with ordering your coffee with milk chocolate, and paying before stepping aside to wait at the pickup side of the counter. Which happens to be only a few feet away from the monster himself.  

There are quite a few people in the café this morning, which is understandable, and you're beginning to fidget when you decide to give into impulse. Turning away from the chalkboard hanging over the register, you walk the two steps to the monster. 

"Excuse me," you begin as politely as you can manage without sounding grating, and there are his eyes again, landing on you with an accompanied grunt of question. Not commenting on the once over he gives you from top to bottom, you nod at the empty seat across from him. "Do you mind if I sit while I wait for my order?" 

The monster scoffs, almost as if he's disgusted by the very thought, and with your earlier staring you would very well understand his reasoning if he decides to turn you away. "ain't got my name on it." 

Your smile widens at his consent, and you sit, grateful for the extra space between you and the crowd. "Thank you," you say, drawing his attention away from his phone and his attempt to ignore your presence. "I was so rude a moment ago, you have every right to blow me off for my actions. I want to apologize for that." 

The monster huffs, his mouth twitching upwards at one corner sardonically. "yeah, real classy of you, by the way," he says, his eyebrow ridges raising. "big, scary freak like me, what's not to stare at?" 

"That's just the thing," you say with a slight frown, not denying one bit that he is rather intimidating, but here your cheeks start to warm briefly. "I was just thinking, you look amazing," you bow your head with your admission, unable to meet his eyes, and thus missing the initial half of his reaction until his phone falls with a clatter onto the table: " _huh_?" 

You glance up, somewhat worried that you've offended him all over again, and maybe he is looking at you a bit oddly, with his red eyes wide as saucers. Still, even if it's better then the anger you're so afraid invoking, you're quick to try and explain yourself: "It's just, I think you really pull off that outfit, paired with your outward appearance. It looks really nice. Something like, what would someone call it...edgy?" You tap a gloved finger against your chin in thought, thinking that the word is probably perfect, albeit it's one you aren't used to using. 

The monster's face goes from frozen to a little more slack, his eyes assess you again, although the disbelief has not left him. "you're a real piece of work, aren't cha," he mutters, and it makes you smile again. 

"I apologize, it's just I read recently in an advice column that one should always share what's on their mind if it happens to be kind, and I just happen to think," you consider it again, before it strikes you, your hands curling into fists. "You look really fucking awesome." 

The lights of his eyes blink out, and a chill runs down your spine, worry swimming in your stomach: is he okay? Have you gone to far? 

The sound is booming, earth shattering, bone jarring, and it fills the café, every chin turning in your direction as the monster before you blatantly breaks out into loud guffaws. You blink for a moment, considering again if you've done something wrong, but the sight of him swiping away a tear scares away the remainder of your trepidation. Smiling freely again, you soak in the sound of his amusement: as short lived as it is, it is rather pleasant.  

"that's the last thing i expected to hear from someone like you, slick," he comments, and you can't stop yourself from glancing over your attire, from your hand-me-down Frye Shirley boots to the cashmere scarf you have tucked into your black pea coat, where its frayed ends can't be seen.  

"You're correct," you comment, but then meet his eyes with all the hand-to-breast pomp you can muster: "But I prefer  _obnoxious snob,_  thank you _."_  

There's that laugh again, and you're practically glowing, but the call for your order takes you away with an apology to your neighbor. The barista that hands you your drink smiles weakly, "Have a good morning, Polaris." You think them accordingly, humming slightly when you notice that they were correct in only leaving one "L" in your name: Northern Star or no, it was a simple enough mistake to make. 

Rather than immediately leave the shop, you return to where the skeleton is still sitting, his laughter having gone away again, but his face softer for it, if only slightly. "I see my mission has had some success," you mention, and go on to explain yourself when he looks questionable with another eye ridge raise, just one this time, and an irritated one this, but you're beginning to think that this is a pretty common expression to grace his skull. "You seemed upset," you say, sipping at your drink and flinching away slightly: your dull-headed curiosity will be the death of you. 

"my boss," he says, but then catches himself abruptly. "tha' hell does it matter to you, anyways," he asks with a wave of his occupied hand.  

"Sorry," you reply, your smile weakening with your internal self-admonishment. "Waking up this morning, I found myself unclear as to what I would do today, and I've discovered that I like talking to you. As short as our conversation has been, I'll admit!" You laugh lightly with your confession, understanding the need for his returning confusion.  

"tch." He's not staring at you directly, his eyes averted, and you're greeted with the curious sight of a few beads of what looks like red sweat on the face of his skull, which is astounding all on it's own. But if a skeleton can drink coffee... 

"Oh, haven't you ordered yet," you ask, and his attention returns to you. "Someone must be late to meet you, that explains it."  

He makes a sound at your assumption, and you think that you've probably got in wrong, your concern confirmed when he speaks next: "i'm not waitin' on anyone but the damn server. frickin' human establishment taking forever to give me what i damn well ordered!" He says this last bit with a thump of his thick hand on the table, but it doesn't bother you, no, what he said is what's not sitting right. You entered the shop after him, after all! How could he not have what he paid for by now? Well, that much is obvious. 

"One moment," you say abruptly, and stand, walking to the pick-up counter without a further word from the monster. Someone else is already there, and you have to back up a step as they turn to leave before you can catch the barista from earlier. "Excuse me," you try to say politely; it's altogether possible that there has been some mistake made, after all. "My friend-," you pause, glancing back with an unvoiced question to the monster. He blinks, eyes darting to the side as soon as he answers, "sans." 

"My friend Sans has yet to receive his order," you continue, noticing as the barista's façade cracks at the attention drawn to the monster behind you, and thus weakening your resolve at being amiable further. Just a mistake, surely.  

"I'm, I'm sorry, but our store has a strict no-serve policy, and we will be unable to give him the order that he so requested," they say, their smile tight, even as you can sense something apologetic about it: they don't like what they're saying, even as they're saying it. 

"But he paid for it, did he not," you ask, your smile slipping.  

"Y-yes, but the cashier, they're still new to a job. They were unaware, and, well," they glance behind you, at Sans, but you don't look yourself even as he gives an infuriated " _what?_ " in exclamation. 

"May I speak with your manager, please. I don't want to take up any more of your time," you say, an edge to your voice even as your try to reign the bubbling warmth under your skin back. The barista bobs a nod and disappears, heading through a door behind the counter, and you keep that fixed smile on your face. The manager is short in coming, a well-trim individual with curling brown hair, perhaps in their mid-thirties, and wearing a black button up with a tag that designated their position.  

"My employee has informed me of the issue, and I have to say with my deepest regret that I simply can't budge on the matter," this person says with a knife-thin grin, immediately rankling your nerves further.  

"Is this business not apart of a well-known chain of stores," you question matter-of-factually. "Since the passing of the All-Equal Law, surely you're aware of how absurdly illegal this is?" You smile is just as crisp, but they begin to smirk further, their eyes glinting.  

"For government owned stores. As it happens, this particular branch is strictly maintained by my family, the DuFois." 

"The DuFois," you question with some amount of surprise. "Then you know of  _my_  family," you say, and pull out your wallet, slipping out your identification card and placing it on the counter face up. The individual glances down at the short distance, and you don't even blink as the color bleeds from their face. "It has been sometime since I've heard from a DuFois; it was not often I'm afraid that we had the honor to have them in attendance at the family home."  

The manager says nothing, although the barista that has returned to their side during your tête–à–tête glances tentatively down at the card their manager is "eyeballing", you think the term is. The barista's hands fly to their cheeks, and they back away, darting to the machines behind the counter. When they return quickly after, it's with a large cup that they hand over in a stuttering apology, the name "Sans" written in curling letters on the sides.  

"Thank you," you say with all honesty, taking the drink before removing your card from the counter top, with no further comment from the manager: the artery bulging unattractively at his temple is all that you needed by way of acknowledgement.  

"Here you are-what? Why do you look so amused?" Sans is standing from his table but instead of looking as upset as you expected, he's grinning from metaphorical ear to metaphorical ear as "shit-eating" as you've ever seen anyone ever do in your life.  

"someone just got their ass handed to them over a coffee-- what the hell isn't there to laugh at," he,  _Sans_ , asks rhetorically, positively cackling, and when you turn to leave with him it doesn’t fade. "did you see their face?" 

No one jumps up to immediately stop the two of you as you go, although heads turn that you refrain from peering back at. When the door clicks shut behind Sans, the bell inside sounding with your departure, you keep your shoulders firm. Sans stands beside you, and you're given the chance to realize that he really is very tall. Taller than yourself, at least, and almost twice as broad. You can't help but let the stiffness is your spine soften as you marvel anew at his presence. "Sans, I-," you begin to say, turning to him fully.  

But then the door opens again, the sound of the bell returning, and you stop, preparing yourself to step aside for whomever is leaving the café. You're not expecting it when the manager steps out, face flashing red, but you can see the frowning face of Sans in your peripherals as the person reaches out. They make a grab at you, and your arm raises by reflex, the tight material of your coat at your elbow causing your sleeve to pull up. When they make contact, it's with a hand on your wrist.  

Their hand. Their skin. Cold, clammy, sweating _soft_  

"If you think I'm letting an  _Ebott_  walk out of my store-!" 

"Let go!" 

DuFois hesitates, their words stopping in their mouth before they start to go again, but they're cut off instantly. 

 _"Let go!_ "  

You know what that fear sounds like, you've lived it a thousand times, and right now it's all you are.  

" _STOP TOUCHING ME_ _!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, I don't know what this is. I do, but I don't. If it gets attention, maybe I'll keep writing it. TSB will be my main focus, and the chapters for this one will be shorter, but I've got some idea as to where this one will go...if it were...to go anywhere...I mean.  
> And if I were building a playlist, these songs wouldn't already be on them:  
> Truslow, "Lover"  
> Ólafur Arnalds, "For Now I Am Winter".


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not doing this again. This isn't updating. I'm not giving in, I refuse.  
> Darn it.  
> ...Sans's POV chapter, anyone?

Sans has seen that look in your eyes a dozen times staring back at him in the Underground. It's pretty weird, the things you notice while being slaughtered by a nine year old, but the Judgment Hall floors are polished to a damn shine: perfect for watching the lights of his eyes rattle in their sockets while he bled out on the ground.  

The fear on your face is damn near the same, with your pupils dilated to pin pricks and your mouth hanging open, caught between bearing your teeth in anger and releasing a scream of agony. For a moment Sans doesn't just see his face, he sees his brother's, Papyrus' jaw hanging slightly open in sheer astonishment for having been defeated, for realizing he's dying so damn suddenly, before even his skull is reduced to Dust.  

And Sans doesn't like it.  

"What is the matter with you-," DuFoot is gaping down at you sitting on the pavement, trying to get away, but the idiot that hasn't let go of you doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence before Sans is bearing down on him with all of the scorn he can muster. 

"are you fucking deaf," he sneers, magic simmering in his right eye socket as he looms over the bastard, until you're not the only one quivering in your boots right now. " **l e t  g o**." 

Sans doesn’t blink when the human lets out a stuttering curse, finally releasing your arm. The stupid prick runs backwards into the shop door, scrabbles around for the handle, and falls inside, all the while keeping his gaze locked in Sans' direction.  

Sans snorts in disgust at the human's hasty retreat, and begins to swivel his attention back to you until he flinches, unprepared for the feeling of you brushing past him on the sidewalk.  

A measure of his anger disappears, replaced with confusion at your sudden flight, and then frustration when he realizes that you didn't say a damn thing in the process. Turning around, he barely catches sight of your hurrying form when you disappear into a small alley beside the café, and he becomes aware of a burning in his hand. 

He glances down, only to scowl at the sight of his crushed coffee between the bones of his phalanges and metacarpals: so much for that. Yours is no better, toppled over on the ground with it's lid open and fallen leaves already caught up in the small pool of liquid. 

Making a decision fueled by frustration, and, okay, a whole lot of fucking curiosity, because what the hell just happened? Sans follows after you.  

The ally is cramped, with the brick wall of the café on one side, and wooden siding of an antiques store on the other. There's a dumpster next to the coffee shop, and it's on the other side of it's large frame that he finds you, but he hears you before he sees you. 

The retching is dry, a series of hacking coughs, followed by your heavy breathing. Sans hesitates at the sound of it, not wanting to catching any sight of human bodily fluids while giving you some semblance of privacy. When it dies down, he walks around the bulk of the trash can. 

You aren't any better than you were previously, if anything you look worse. With one hand on the side of the shop you stand half crouched over, your eyes dancing in your skull and probably seeing a whole lot of nothing while sweat dots the fine outer layer of your skin.  

It's a stark contrast to how you were in the shop: every hair perfectly placed, your mouth stretched wide in a white smile, and your eyes shining in the early morning light of the store. Sans couldn't help but notice these details, years spent working under his brother in the Guard and dealing with a certain brat's bullshit making picking up on the little things a damn must.  

Plus Sans isn't used to anyone smiling that damn much, not anyone but the _kid_ , and it's practically unsettling.  

But now you're leaning over in an empty alley looking less like old money and more like someone who just had a damn panic attack and Sans doesn't know what to do with his damn self. 

"hey, slick, you doin' okay?" It's a stupid question and he knows it, but at least you know he's there now, if the startle you give as you lock eyes with him is any indication of that. Your breath is labored, and when Sans takes a step in your direction, you give a flinch of your own, halting Sans in his tracks. 

"whoa, hey, i'm not movin'," Sans tries, raising both of his hands, and keeping his word by staying where he's at. You don't budge another inch, but your eyes dart to the crushed cup he's completely forgotten about since this little encounter started.  

" _Sans_ ," you stutter, all signs of the smooth talk from earlier in the café long gone.  

"s'right, it's just me! big freaky guy from the store, remember?" 

You let out a huff that's halfway between a laugh and a gasp, a tremble starting to work it's way through your hunched figure. "I'm sorry." 

There was another damned apology. It was like every other thing you said was "my apologies this" and "I'm sorry that". How many times in a sit down does someone like you end up regretting something? 

"tha' hells that for? you're not the one who insisted on assaulting someone in broad freaking daylight," Sans argues, meaning that DuFois bastard from before, but you're shaking your head. 

"Your drink," you say, and Sans blinks dumbly at the cup in his hand, confused all over again. "It's completely ruined."  

Are you being serious right now? Sans snorts dismissively, letting his arms go limp at his sides when he sees that you're probably not immediately going to bolt. "s'no big deal," he says, before going out on a limb. "gotta say though, i've  _bean_  in better situations."  

You jolt in your spot, turning completely away from the wall in front of you, and your eyes go wide. Sans thinks he's done something completely wrong with the flash of horror on your face. "Sans! Was that a joke?" 

"uh..." 

"That was terrible!" Your expression shifts and suddenly Sans is completely offended when he realizes that  _you’re_  the one deeply concerned for _him_  now. Heat floods his skull in an instant, and Sans can feel the sweat on his skull: what the hell is your issue? Shows him for trying to help out some freaking human with their damn problems! 

"Ha!" Sans stiffens, thinking he's hearing things at first, until you let out another laugh, your mouth twisting as a few more pathetic chuckles escape, and you've got your eyes shut tight. Your legs are wobbling beneath you, and just like that the anger bleeds out of Sans bones, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion. He knew he should have stayed in bed today; leaving the house is never worth it. 

"hey," he says, trying again with moving closer, and going so far as to extend a hand in your direction: you look like you're going to fall over and ruin that pretty face of yours all over the asphalt any second now, and there are more than a few questionable stains on the ground.  

The smile drops from your face in an instant, but rather then almost running your eyes lock on his offering for a moment, then you're staring down the wall all over again. "I can't." 

"what, a couple of exposed finger bones too much for your human stomach to handle," he asks with an edge to his voice, his distrust for whatever ideas you might hold towards his kind returning from where he had left it originally in the store, right before you had said something ridiculous about him being  _amazing_.  

"I can't," you repeat pointlessly, and he retracts his hand, scoffing bitterly. Figures you'd be no different. "Hands." Sans' brow bone furrows at this in his lack of understanding. Your eyes close again, but you must know the reason behind his silence, because you keep going almost breathlessly as the panic in your voice tries to push through and take hold again. "Skin. Touching. I can't." 

 _"STOP TOUCHING ME!"_  

 _Oh, shit_ , Sans exclaims from inside his head, the mystery finally clicking into place.  

"look, slick," Sans says, and there's some relief when you do as he says, peering up between your eyelashes, which are thicker than he had previously noticed. He holds out his hands again, wiggling his bones in the cold air. "no skin. there's nothing there." 

"But-." 

"you ever try touching anythin' that isn't human?" 

You swallow, Sans clearly seeing the movement in your throat in near fascination: he was still getting used to all of that biological shit.  

"Dogs," you're saying, and he drags his attention back to your actual words, not just what's helping make them. "Fur, and feathers. Animals are fine," you admit, and Sans can see the blossom of comprehension in your eyes, something like hope there. Wanting to urge it on further, Sans motions again, this time with only one hand held out. 

"no flesh here, kid. no muscle, no sinew. just bone." 

He tries wiggling his fingers again...and nearly sighs audibly when you move away from the wall. When you start to stumble, stiffer probably then what you expect, Sans has to beat down the urge to push forward and grab you. You manage to right yourself, and study his hand again, a noticeable tremor in your hand when you reach forward. 

Your fingers barely brush his distal phalanges, and then you pull back again, almost as if stung. Sans refuses to feel upset by this action, and waits, your hand creeping forward again. This time they manage to brush the proximal bones, and Sans has never been so sensitive in his hand before, and it's hard to not close it and potentially trap your own. But he just waits, and it pays off: a sharp breath of laughter escaping from between your lips at the sight of your hand touching someone else's.  

Sans doesn't know what this means to you, he thinks that he can't possibly understand at first. But when you smile up at him, sweat still on your skin, and with lines of wryness under your eyes that haven't been there previously, he's reminded of when Frisk had pulled him alongside the cliff-face of Mt. Ebott, on their way to freedom.  It was the first time in a long while anyone had shown him an ounce of physical affection like that, actual _trust_ , and it had shaken him to his core. He'd liked it. Wanted more of it.  

So he wraps his hand around yours, loose enough in case you change your mind, and by some miracle, you don't. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, I think updates for this one will be kinda random?  
> The chapters will still be short but, people said they actually liked the first chapter?? So, I thought I'd try for a second.  
> A Sans POV chapter may have been a bit...ambitious of me, though. Let me know? Maybe?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter. Mentions of suicide, self-harm, and violence. It's not often that I'll have to warn you of these, and even the self-harm warning is a minor one, but I want you all to be aware of it, nonetheless.

"Willkommen!"  

"gesundheit."  

A breathless laugh escapes your mouth while the six foot skeleton monster stands behind you, perched on the steps that lead to the door of your home. Standing in the open doorway, you motion him in before walking in yourself. As you expect with a glance over your shoulder, Sans has to tilt himself somewhat to fit through the doorway. "Willkommen means welcome in German. I'm welcoming you to my home, Sans," you explain. Some of Sans' confusion dims, but he still has a wide eyed look about him, even as he attempts to appear otherwise with his hands tucked neatly into his coat pockets.  

"right..." 

Leading him to the dining room of your home, you allow him a look around without comment, knowing he must be curious to see what's inside. You would be yourself, you know.  

Your home itself is a small apartment in one of the residential centers of a city. Once an away home of your dad's, it was now your own, and one you had paid in full yourself rather than simply accepting it as a gift.   

It's a nice building, you think. With two floors, the second primarily has your bedroom, a bathroom, and a guest bedroom, one you used yourself growing up with your dad and father. The first floor has a foyer, kitchen, and a study tucked between the dining room and living room, it's door normally kept closed. 

"What would you like to drink," you ask in the dining area, removing your coat from shoulders and placing it on a chair across from Sans as he sits down. The gloves follow after, his eyes darting to the material as you toss them on the table, followed by your scarf. Now that you're home, you're far less inclined to wear the additional layers. "I have eight different types of tea, some coffee, cocoa in a cabinet, I think," you trail off, heading into the kitchen and leaving Sans to slowly acclimate to the new environment. 

You know what it is like to enter a stranger's home, the slow release of tension that followed over time as you would settle into place as long as no one immediately insisted on breaking through your bubble of space. As you open your fridge to peer inside for other options, you spare a glance in his direction, and amusement strikes you once again at the sight of the large skeleton seemingly trying to make himself as small as possible in your dining room chair. He isn't having much luck. 

"uh, got any condiments in there?" His voice is as falsely confident as he looks, and you don't even take a moment to question why he would ask. 

"Yes! I have ketchup, relish, mayonnaise, mustard-." 

"mustard," he interrupts, a few pricks of sweat showing up on his bone face when he notices that you're looking in his direction. "i'll take the mustard." 

"Coming up," you announce, sweeping the yellow container from your fridge. It takes only a few minutes for you to pour it in a large glass and take it to your guest, sitting it beside the tapping fingers of his hand on the table. He gives you a mumbled thanks as you sit down with your own drink, a mug of hot cocoa.  

Both you and Sans take a drink from your respective cups, your eyes not missing a beat when the skeleton monsters has to flick out the tip of his red tongue to remove some mustard from his teeth. "so, uh, nice place you have here," he mentions, and you smile freely, appreciating his compliment. 

"Thank you! It was my parents before it was my own, and I rather enjoy the space," you say honestly, a sense of calm settling further into your shoulders as you skim your eyes over the weaving carvings along the outermost rim of the table. Your hands are no longer shaking, but you can still remember the feeling of that person's grip on your wrist, a momentary recollection that threatens to cause a roll of nausea in your stomach. You try to force back the feeling, just grateful that you're finally home, and due to Sans intervention no less.  

Sans was like a lifebuoy in the sea of people on the way home, keeping you afloat while not allowing you to sink into yourself among the threatening press of bodies. There had been few people on the sidewalk, but that mattered not, your extreme discomfort at contact,  _human_  contact, making your nerves more unreasonable then normal.   

If it were not for his presence, you would undoubtedly still be in that ally way, battling with your own will on whether it was worth risking the leave or not.  

"I want to thank you sincerely, Sans. For what you've done for me." 

The skeleton makes a near choking sound from behind the rim of his glass, a flare of curiosity for how this was possible making your smile waver while you also felt concern for it happening at all. You want to ask if he's fine, but no better than to crowd him, and only when Sans appears to be alright do you continue. "Not many people would see me react as I did and leap to my aid." 

"pft. could hardly leave you like that after stickin' up for me in the store," he admits, and you frown, the sight retaking Sans' turned away attention. "someone like me, a monster. ain't everybody interested in helping out. not even my own kind." 

"Why is that," you can't help but ask, intrigued by the level of severity in his voice. 

"tch, i dunno what you heard about the underground, but it was kill or be killed down there, and ain't nobody going to help someone out that might just stick you in the back the second you turn around." Sans scoffs, scowling into his glass. "dunno why that comes as much of a surprise. you said so yourself, not just anyone is going to help some complete stranger." 

"Touche," you hum a reply, but shake your head. Even if your thankfulness does not compeltely go through to him, you want to try anyways.  

"what was that anyways," Sans begins, but then starts, as if he's caught himself doing something wrong. "not that you've gotta explain yourself, but you looked scared shitless." 

"I do not mind explaining myself," you admit, catching the skeleton off guard, who obviously remains interested despite himself. "I feel as though I owe you some explanation for what happened, and I'm more than willing to give it."  

Sans' chair creaks under his weight when he leans forward slightly, and you would have laughed at his response if it were not for the topic. Releasing a hand from your mug and rubbing at your wrist absently, you begin. "You recall how in the alleyway I told you that I did not want to make contact with human skin," you say, and continue when he nods. "I have haphephobia. It has other names, and varies between individuals in nature, but basically it constitutes as an intense fear of touching, or being touched by another."  

"that's why you panicked when that bastard grabbed you," Sans provides, and you nod in affirmation.  

"Exactly." There's some comfort in speaking of your phobia in a more clinical sense, but it would not remain that was for long. "Many of it's symptoms resemble that of an anxiety attack: breathlessness, panic, nausea, and so on. Some individuals are born with it. Others develop it as a result of a trauma. I am part of the latter group." 

Sans says nothing about this, his hands looking comically large around his glass. You allow yourself to examine the digits of his fingers as a means of distraction, aware of the tightening of your hands on both your wrist and mug. Through the ceramic the warmth of the liquid brings you some reassurance, just as the beat of your pulse does beneath the press of your thumb. You're only thankful that your own skin does not have the same terrifying affect that others' does.  

"When I was sixteen, I was taken from my family home with my piano instructor. Together we were ransomed for the grand total of 1.5 million dollars, American cash."  

"holy, shit," Sans mutters at this, and you grin wryly in response, knowing what it is leading to. His voice rises in realization: "then that asshole wasn't kidding when he mentioned your name!" 

"Correct," you reply, smiling politely as your dad had taught you while growing under the influence of your family, under a household supported by wealth, and a wide spreading power. "I was born Polaris Ebott, under my dad, William Ebott, and my father, Elliot Ebott. It was my dad that was born from the line that originally conquered the mountain, and gave it it's name. I am their sole heir and the last of the line of mages that originally trapped your kind under the mountain." 

"you got anymore mustard?" 

Such a blasé response caused you to jolt in your chair, something almost akin to disappointment in your voice when you reply: "What? Is that really all you have to say to that?" 

"what do you want me to do? flip over the table and call you a filthy monster hater?" Sans scoffs and pulls out his phone, flipping open the screen. "hang on, lemme call my brother. he'll totally do it for you."  

"No, it's just simply not what I expected," you reply in earnest, honestly feeling another smile tug away at your lips, and stepping away from the uncomfortable edge that would have propelled you into being upset again. "Not that a negative response wouldn't be unwarranted. My family did intentionally subjugate your kind to imprisonment for an undefined number of centuries." 

"pft, you say your family like it wasn't just a bunch of dead pricks that pulled a number on us," Sans says with the same lackluster attitude he had upon your initial admission of the fact. "shit happened, big whoop. we go around blaming everyone and it'll just happen all over again. not that i wouldn't gladly pummel some asshole into the ground that deserved it," he says with a fang toothed smile. Although this is basically a constant with his maw, in this instance it has a certain menace to it that makes you wish a good luck to anyone who dares cross his path the wrong way. 

"You really are something, do you know that," you ask with renewed awe, and say nothing when his grin drops like a hat when he flinches. "As for the mustard, I'm afraid that was the last. I don't really care for it myself." 

"what? why even buy a bottle? what kind of sense of taste do you have?" Ah, and there's the level of disgust you expected previously when you revealed your name.  

"I wanted to see if I would appreciate it more in a recipe. As for my sense of taste, I think it's a good one," you reply, smiling from behind your mug as he grumps, not looking away for a moment.  

"so, kidnapped? lots of cash?" 

Ah, there it goes.  

"As I mentioned I was taken with my piano instructor," you say, idly running a finger along the rim of your cup, nearly empty as it is. "What memories I have between point A and point B are hazy at best, but one moment we were being taken from my home, and the next we woke to find ourselves in a box." Sans' bone brow furrows at this, but you think he's beginning to understand. "I did not know the details of the ransom until we escaped, but the kidnappers gave my parents the orders to give them the cash, or they would never reveal the location of the box. The time they had, on the other hand, to actually give them the money was entirely dependent on how much air we had to stay alive, as we were sealed together underground." 

"what the fuck," Sans' voice comes in a near hiss, and you smile, knowing he's not fooled a moment by your poor attempt when his the disgust written plainly on his face doesn’t budge. 

"An apt response," you reply, your previous warm tone having cooled considerably. "When we woke, I panicked, but my teacher, she quickly attempted to calm me. We were unaware of our location, but the lack of light filtering in gave us some indication of what had happened. Now our guess on how long what air we had would last was up in the air," you shrug lightly, really unsure of it, even now. "There were two of us, a sixteen year old of average height and a near adult female of, also, average height. The box was just big enough to fit us, and there was no telling as to how long we had been out. We had no watches on us, no phones. Trying to rupture the box, if at all possible, could result in our immediate death due to the pressure of the earth covering us. It was effectively, a waiting game." 

"shit..." He mutters, but when you look up there's no trace of pity or remorse, only anger, and you're grateful for it. You had seen far too much of the former in your life since what happened to care for either of them. 

"Save for our clothing, there was one thing that my teacher had on her, in her pocket. It was a black, Scriptmate ballpoint pen. Nothing abnormal. She had been using it to write on music sheets at the house." You rub at your wrist, leaving a faint red trail when your grip hardens. The story is drawing to a close, but you need the pain in order to draw yourself away from the memory of that pen sitting in an evidence bag on a table before you. Sans doesn’t say anything when the pause starts to draw out, and again you're relieved, knowing that otherwise the conversation might drag on longer than it should  

But you want it out, you want it over with. You want Sans to have his chance at running, if he sees fit to do so. Telling your story again didn't make it seem less real and more like a dream, but it was better then hiding it away.  _Not just mine, but ours._  

"She made a decision after she found it. There were two of us in the box. If there was one less, there was reason to believe that there would be a greater chance for the other to survive." You press your pointer and middle finger the left side of your neck, the pumping of blood under your skin greater there than in your wrist. "You may be unaware of the details of the human body, but beneath the skin and muscle of the sides of the neck are a pair of veins called the external and internal jugular veins. In a matter of minutes, if wounded there, one can swiftly end the life of a human. The external vein is the one directly linked to the heart, the major muscular organ that pumps blood throughout our bodies, and is necessary for us to function." 

You remove your hand, aware that Sans' face has grown grim, and that he's still silent. It's no more darker or lighter in the room then it was before, and distantly you can hear cars driving by outside, and the steps of people walking to work or whatever else have them.  

"I managed to convince her to wait a few minutes more, but when our breathing began to grow labored, she said goodbye, and ended her life." 

Neither of you say anything for a moment. You begin to fear that you've broken the chance at whatever you could have had with him entirely, it stretches so thin, but you don't let it show. No, you're the epitome of calm, both feet planted solidly on the ground, your hands wrapped tightly around your mug, tight enough that the sound of your skin rubbing against the ceramic comes in a muffled squeak. Just as Sans shifts and you think that he's beginning to say somethi- 

_"Spooky, scary, skeletons send shivers down your spine-."_  

Your mug bounces across the floor without shattering, but liquid goes everywhere, including on your hands, until your left staring dumbly from your standing position before Sans with hot chocolate dripping down your fingers. Sans is no better, standing up himself with the crushed remains of your glass falling through his phalanges. Instead of chocolate, there's a smear of yellow on the table from the remains of his drink. Meanwhile that song just keeps playing, and when you relize what it is, you promptly break out into a fit of laughter.  

" _what the hell_?" 

"What is that?" You know exactly what it is. "Is that-is that-?" You can't get it out, it's too much to handle.  

Sans is a sputtering mess, ripping his phone from his jacket pocket, and flipping it open while his eyes locked onto your shuttering form. "what the fu-." 

A scream of something near unintelligible comes from the end, making Sans wince away from his phone, and your laughter subside somewhat. Rubbing at the corner of one of your eyes, you manage to make out a few words on the other end, but it all seems fueled by anger. Sans just grunts along, clearly uncomfortable, and rolls his eyes when a fresh wave of amusement hits you for the briefest of moments. You wave off his irritation, apologizing quietly. 

When the call finally ends, Sans plops down in a defeated pile in your chair, groaning into the collar of his coat. "Your boss," you ask, picking up your mug from the ground. 

"and brother," he replies. Silence falls again after that, but it's not as bad as it was before, the tension in the air having broke with the abruptness of the call. Not to mention... 

"Spooky skeletons, Sans," you prompt, unable to help the brief chuckle that follows. 

"shaddup," he nearly growls at your teasing, and you back off, albeit not letting it go. Later perhaps, if there would be a later. "look, i'm not gonna sit here and pretend that i understand exactly what you went through," he says much to your surprise, taking in your attention completely with the seriousness of his tone. "it was shit, one of the worst damn things anyone should go through, and no one should haveta go through that. not you, and certainly not a damn kid," he punctures this last point with a stab of a finger at your table, the harshness in his voice almost giving something away. But maybe not. The concern for the welfare of children is more than likely a shared trait between your species. "but you're sittin' here, and you're still out in the world living with it. sure, some people handle things differently, but you deserve respect for it. including from your damn self." This time Sans points in your direction, and you're taken off guard by the ferocity in his words. He means every one of them, that much is known to you then, and it's enough. 

If there was any doubt in your mind previously that you would like this monster, this person, this man, it no longer exists, or even has a chance to, and this discovery only adds to the pounding in your heart. 

"Thank you, Sans."  

Sans huffs, his eye-lights off in a different direction again, locked on anywhere but your face. But you can see the flush of red on his skull, dancing along the fringes of his eye sockets and ending before it can meet his thick jaw line. 

Sans blushing. Now that is something that'll be hard to shake the thought of.  

 

"I'll be sure to stock up on more mustard for when you visit again, Sans," you say later at your apartment door as you say goodbye to the skeleton.  

"what makes you think i wanna see you again," he nearly spits, but you can see the beads of red sweat on his skull and continue to feel hopeful. He's a few steps down from you, the distance making it so that you almost see eye to eye, and you meet his red blips without flinching. 

"I enjoyed our time together, and I'm hoping that I can maybe grow on you, if you give me the chance," you reply, giving away some of your eagerness no doubt, but having no remorse for it. 

Sans shrugs his great shoulders and glances away. "whatever floats your boat, slick," he says, and begins to walk away, taking the final step down and turning his back. It wasn't a no! 

"Auf Wiedersehen, Sans!" Sans turns to see your delighted wave, a look of perplexion on his skull: "what is with that? you have a fetish for foreign languages? 

You can't help but laugh, a bit of gloominess slipping into your smile as you lean against the open doorway, covering your hands with your pockets as a stranger passes by behind him. "My father liked to always greet me when I came home in a different tongue. It was his way of introducing a lesson on different cultures for the day," you say, remembering briefly how it was one of the first things you looked forward to at the end of an afternoon spent at school. "He also thought it was a good way of refreshing things, so we never grew tired of saying hello and goodbye." 

Sans sniffs through his nose cavity, appearing thoughtful for a moment until he lifts his skull again. "ja, wie auch immer." He turns even as your expression shifts to one of pure astonishment, and then it melts into a warm smile: he really is amazing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you imagine what Sans saw when the Reader/Polaris smiled at him, the one that prompted his blush? Because I can, and I'm going to have fun writing about it later.  
> Happy holidays, everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, the Persona 3 ost was the perfect playlist to listen to while writing this. I know it's a tad early, sort of, as the last chapter only received one comment, but I can never help myself.

" _e_ _ggs_... _a_ _nchovies_..." His eyes narrowed. "what the fuck is  _a_ _cciughe_?" Sans crumpled the list in his hand in his fist, not even sending the stuttering human at the checkout counter so much as a glance when they greet him with a "W-welcome."  

Normal Sunday afternoon and Sans has found himself at the local supermarket shopping for Papyrus, his "oh so Terrible and Horrific" boss and younger brother. Why the tall stack of righteous fury couldn't go out and get his ingredients his own damned self, Sans had no idea. It has nothing to do with his game plan for the day—the usual on a Sunday, sit, eat, and sleep with the barest amount of movement he could possibly manage, even if it meant cutting out the eating part—he knows. More like he has that stuck up fish Undyne to mow down for some lame training regimine of theirs.  

Sans sighs when he thinks about how lucky he is that he's actually excluded from these damn things, not that his brother didn't try his ass off every fucking reset. Most times Sans got away with avoiding exercising, usually by literally getting away or procrastinating for so long while preparing that his brother would just leave him behind. 

 _Didn't stop me from being pushed into doing chores_ , he  thinks, grumbling as he ambles towards the condiment aisle: might as well get what he came for personally first.  

Sans twitches to a standstill when he sees who's already there, and quickly jolts back out of the aisle before you can catch him. 

Out of every cheap-ass grocery store in this side of town, why the hell did you have to choose this one? Weren't you made of money or some shit?  

Not at all acting like some creepy weirdo, Sans leans over and peers around the shelving, and there you are again in his direct line of sight. 

You're wearing the same fancy coat you were sporting the other day when you first walked into that café, as well as the same boots, but this time with a pair of dark blue jeans. On one arm you have a small shopping backet, and in one gloved hand you're looking something over, holding your chin between a forefinger and thumb with the other. It takes Sans less than a blink to recognize that you're holding a bottle of mustard, and is it really necessary to be biting your lip like that? It's just a damn bottle of mustard—you don't even like mustard! 

Turning around with his back to the end of the shelf, Sans reconsiders his options. The store is pretty damn small, it was only a matter of time before you noticed him. He could just as easily blip around the place, take what he needed and go, but showing off his magical abilities is sort of a big no-go with the rules that the king laid down. 

Shit if he cared what the king thinks, but what he does care about is anyone finding about what he can do, I.E. a bunch of greedy humans that would lock eyes on him faster than that annoying dog on his brother's left fibula. Not to mention that would just lead to trouble with Papyrus... 

Huffing irritably, Sans decides to suck it up and get it over with. Get in, get out. Hell, maybe you won't even acknowledge his existence. Not that he wants you to. Even after helping you out and hanging out at your house and basically hearing your life story and getting an invite to show up again later. _Pft_ , like he'd take you up on that offer.  

Squaring his large shoulders Sans turns around again and sets off at an easy gait down the row. The moment he takes more than a few steps your head turns, and any and all of the determination he had previously combusts in on itself.  

All it takes are those eyes of yours—widening, shining—combined with that mouth of yours—widening, brightening—and Sans realizes that he's made a mistake.   

"Sans!" You practically sing in both surprise and joy. Nah, he's gotta be imagining that last bit. Or thinks he would, if it wasn't for how much your Soul shines. Sans abruptly removes his line of sight from that little number, and moves on down the aisle: no point in trying to run now, not when you can see him, anyways. 

"hey, slick," he girts out, and nearly winces at the sound. Real nice way to say hello there, buddy. "come here often?" That's  _definitely_  better.  

"Every Sunday, three on the dot!" You reply with a raised finger, as if to add some visible punctuation. "Although, I must say that I've never seen you here before." Your lips tilt downwards curiously and Sans pretends not to notice, glancing at the containers on the shelf next to the two of you instead.  

"uh, yeah. typical place got old." If old meant that he was tired of the buzz cut at the register hiking up the prices every time he stepped in line, then, yeah, it got old  _real_  quick. "hey, thought you said you didn't care for this stuff," he says, jumping away from that topic. You appear confused for a moment, like you've forgotten what you've been doing for the past five minutes or something, and glance at the bottle in your hand. 

"Oh, yes. I was replacing that bottle you finished off the other day," you reply, and when you look down into your basket it draws his eyes with the motion—what the fuck? "Aaand I thought I would try a few other flavors." 

"what the hell?" A few flavors is saying something, because there's at least four different bottles in that basket of yours, each of which you take up and show him after popping your current bottle back on the shelf. 

"So far I have discovered honey, spicy, Dijon, Habanero, and classic yellow. Although, to be honest, it's less for me and more for a certain guest of mine," you admit, sending you a wink that instantly has him perspiring. Damnit, he wanted to keep his cool! "I don't know if you have any preferences, brand or flavor wise, so I've sampled them all!" Because normal people are suppose to do that, apparently?  

"hey, kid, keep doin' stuff like that and I'm gonna think you're some kind of stalker or somethin'." Fuckin' smooth one there, Sans. Real suave. Why don't you accuse them of peering around store aisles and trying to not to get caught staring like some kind of freak next? "I uh don't have any preferences. it's all the same damn thing, isn't it?  I'm not spending extra for some hoity-toity brand." That wasn't any damn better!  

"You have a point," you reply, tilting your head to the side in thought, and Sans has to glance away again. "Between brands I can't imagine that they very differently, but I'm hardly a connoisseur of condiments. The taste is important, but why spend the money if you can find something cheaper and just as good. Whatever the case, think nothing of the price. I'll be paying this time," you finish, straightening and taking the classic back off the shelf. "Just think of it as trying a new vintage of your favorite wine." 

Sans breathes through his nose, seeing that he's facing a losing battle in more ways than one. "yeah, sure. uh, thanks." 

"Don't think me, I'm bribing you after all!"  

"what?"  

"To visit me, of course," you say, not in the least bit ashamed by it, and Sans doesn't know if he should be intimated or feel some sort of respect for it, something that's quickly becoming the norm with you. "And perhaps to obtain your number to boot." 

"tha' hell you want that for," he asks, definitely surprised. Doesn't matter if his hand already started reaching for his phone in his coat pocket: by some weird happenstance he'd already traded numbers with pretty much all the people he hated by force in some way or another, nevermind if he's not reluctant to take yours.  

"To set up a date." 

Whoa, hold the fuck up.  

"I would hate for you to happen to visit and for me to not be there after all," you smoothly continue, and Sans tries not to slump in front of you. What the hell had he been expecting? "Not that we need a definite day or hour, you can visit anytime. I just want to avoid that mistake." You say this with all the innocence in the world, and damned if Sans doesn't believe you. What the hell is up with you, anyways? First you're spoutin' off compliments like it's nothing, next you're taking his back, and now here you are pretending like you intend to spend a good portion of your tiny life actually enjoying his damn company.  

He can already see that look on your face if he said exactly that, that same damn face you wore at your place when you asked why his own kind wouldn't help him out in a hairy situation, all round eyed with curiosity, and your head at an angle. Followed by an obvious " _why wouldn't I_?"   

Barely even a damn full day spent in your presence and he can already predict what you're going to say to a T.  

 _Figures._  

Rather than argue Sans just nods, watching as you slip out a phone that's somehow cheaper and older than his own: sure monster's had all the latest technology like dimensional boxes and jetpacks, but hell if anyone dropped a phone down into the Underground that's worth a shit that he could have gotten his hands on. He rambles off his number until you've got the last digit, but you don't reply right away, pressing a few more button. 

"Okay, now I just need a picture," you say, and Sans is halfway to protesting this, but you don't automatically point the camera at him. Instead a light bulb seems to go off above your head and you face the mustard bottles on the shelf. Sans watches you with one brow raised while you crouch down and a flash from your phone follows shortly after. You stand up and turn the phone around, showing him the screen with a "ta-da!"  

There's a picture of a bottle of spicy mustard staring back at him, and directly under it are the words: "Big Guy".  

Oh. It's his contact ID. 

Sans snorts out a laugh and covers his mouth too late, the glaring smile you give him showing that you knew you'd won this round.  

 

"Your brother truly appreciates his Italian," you're commenting later in the middle of the pasta section of the place. Sans is standing next to you when he gives a shrug, unable to help the softening of his mood when he thinks about it. 

"tell me about it. first time he swung by undyne's and learned how to cook he wouldn't shut up about it. lemme tell you though, first couple of dishes weren't easy to swallow." Easy to stick in his mouth with Paps starting all sparkly eyed and expecting at him, sure, but definitely hard not to choke on when Sans finished processing what he was doing to himself.  

Luckily "sparkly eyed" hardly applied to his brother anymore unless someone's on the wrong end of his business, but it isn't often that he has the chance to have any encounters like that since they all hit the Surface.  

"But you could swallow them," you say, taking Sans' mind away from that with a wave of a package of spaghetti. "The first time I tried cooking outside of my family's home and I nearly destroy the oven," you say this with a laugh, but Sans is way ahead of you. 

"ha! just the oven? undyne and paps would burn down her house at least once a  _week_?" 

You gasp, actually  _gasp_ , with a hand raised to your mouth, your perfect teeth white as damn snow. Sans could say that you'd put Mettaton to shame with such a show if you weren't so honest about it. "Her entire house? How did she ever manage to keep any of her neighbors from complaining?" 

"heh, let's just say everyone was too damned scared of the broad to live anywhere near her place," he says, already smirking. "and you could say she wasn't  _burning_  for anyone to get in her space." 

" _Saaaaans_ ," you chide in obvious pain, but when this just makes his laughter deepen you're all smiles again, making his chuckle sputter out to a cough. "Who is Undyne, by the way," you ask. "I understand that she must be close to your brother to teach him how to cook, but is she a family friend?"  

Sans' snort causes you to stop in your movement towards examining the jars of sauce at your shoulder, and Sans doesn't bother the hide the disdain in his voice. "friend to him anyways, if any of us have anything of what you people would call "friends".  undyne is, or  _was_ , the captain of the royal guard. Paps had a spot as the tactician, and they just sort of train together  _constantly_." 

"Captain of the Royal Guard!" This exclamation comes packed with awe, he can practically see the stars in your eyes, and he finds for the first time that he wants to stamp them down right away.  

"was. but try telling her that and she'll skewer you," he says with an edge to his vice, not liking this topic, and eyeballs the sauce. He doesn't see a lick of whatever it is exactly that he's supposed to be looking for.  

"A Royal Captain and a Tactician. Of an actual kingdom," you mutter, and Sans tries not to slide his gaze right back to you. "And I happened to meet you."  

Hearing this all attempts at trying not stare fail him, and Sans shifts his attention on your face, more then expecting to see disappointment written all over your face. Why the hell shouldn't he? Tactician and Captain, and here he was, the older brother that had more odd jobs then fucks to give with barely a cent to his name.  

But that doesn’t even seem to matter to you. Even if you knew, Sans doesn't know if it would matter to you. Because your expression is gentle and sincere, the smile you give full of warmth and welcome, a damn face he could only hope of seeing once in a lifetime down in the Underground and yet something he's seen twice since meeting you. Magic floods his skull when his Soul pulsates inside his rib cage and it's all Sans can do not to turn tail and  _run_.  

"You said Acciughe?" Your voice breaks through the storm starting to brew that is his thought process and he stiffens, watching as you pluck a glass jar full of something green and speckled with black, and then hand it to him. "Anchovy sauce with garlic, parsley, and oil. Thus, probably something you should keep away from Papyrus' fiery friend." You say this with a finger to your lips and mischief in your eyes, as if sharing a secret. Sans' nonexistent stomach practically bottoms out at your lame attempt at humor. 

Ah,  _shit_.  

 

By the time the two of you get outside it's practically dark out, and Sans manages to avoid uttering a curse when he reminds himself that with it being fall in all, it was bound to get darker sooner rather than later. There's the sound of leaves skittering across the pavement, more people walking on the sidewalk at this time of day then there would be at the center of Snowdin. Sans ignores the stares of the humans as they move about their business, momentarily distracted by the way light plays across the top of the buildings further along the street rather then bothering to care. Mostly, anyways.  

To say that he's still acclimating to the Surface is saying something, proof of this enough in the human that remains next to him right outside of the shop's entrance.  

You stretch your arms out above your head leisurely, Sans noticing when you don't look at him directly when you speak, instead glancing off down the road at the cars passing by. "Sans, I've been reluctant to ask this in the short time that I've known you, but it would probably be better if I not avoid it," you begin, and you've definitely got his interest piqued, more so when you finally turn your face towards him and he sees you've become serious. "I've been told in the past by my teacher that I could be...pushy when there was something I wanted, and I do want to know you better. But, if there's ever a time that I've been too forthcoming, or in your face, as they would say," you stop, laughing lightly in a self-deprecating manner, and Sans if even more taken off guard," then feel free to tell me to back off. I don't want to ruin any potential friendship we might have by, well, by being annoying." 

"ah, slick," Sans says with the most sarcastic grin he can manage given the circumstances of you totally throwing another one-two punch without him expecting it. "you're totally breaking my heart here." Really he just wants to wipe that troubled looked off your face and smother that spice of resentment in your voice, but you were just talking about wanting to avoid pushiness after all. "don't worry about it. i ain't no baby bones. the second you start really pissin' me off i'll drop you faster than a monster's body disintegrates after a good slaughter."  

You laugh sharply, the relief you feel given away when you run a hand through your hair and smile anew. "I'll hold you to that promise, Sans," you say, meeting his eyes steadily, until it breaks with a flutter of your lashes. "But Slick, honestly? My hair doesn't appear that done up, does it," you ask, idly fingering a few strands of the flop that dangles before your left eye.  

"heh," Sans laughs, uncertain about himself all over again, but trying to play it casual with a pocketed motion towards your person. "have you seen yourself? nice clothes, old money, million dollar bone structure," he says, rolling his eyes. "what, you don't like nicknames?" 

"Ah, no," you wave this off, the bag of 75% condiments  in your other hand crinkling. "Nicknames I enjoy, but Slick makes me sound so greasy. So smooth talking." 

"hah! those are both totally contradictory." 

"I know, I know. Remind me to show you some old movies," you say, and he can tell that your mood is already lifting from your little talk. "But why not my name. It's abnormal enough."  

"like you see people named sans walkin' about everywhere?" 

"But Sans is a completely fascinating name," you say, practically on the tip of your toes, and Sans glances down at the inch of space keeping you apart. "Like "Sans, he sure is comical"." 

"ha!" 

""Even if his jokes are awful"." 

"hey." 

"Would you like big guy, then," you ask slyly, and that inch of space lengthens, Sans unable to meet your gaze when he shifts slightly away, magic already bubbling up in his sternum. "uh." 

"But Polaris is...odd," you finish, humming under your breath as if to say " _what am I going to do_?"  

"it's the north freaking star," Sans says, and you wait to hear the reassurance he's alluding to. "of course it's weird."  _Ha, fooled you,_ he thinks, distracting himself away from the sight of your pout.  "pol, then," he says, unable to help himself when he sweeps a glance over you, from toe to eye level. "or aris. whatever you prefer." 

"I'm more interested in what you prefer, big guy."  

 _Shitshitshit._  

Magic fills Sans skull as the look you send him is goddamn brimming with implication, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets, completely at a loss to do with himself all of a sudden. 

But that damn space is even wider now and you've completely changed like a coin being flipped on it's head, nothing short of friendly when you scratch at your chin, somewhat self-conscious now. "But if Slick has stuck, I'm sure it'll grow on me." 

"heh, don't worry about it," he says feeling awkward, deciding he'll try to think about what just happened a whole lot of later. "we'll see about it some other time." 

""Some other time?" There will be another time? Does this mean you'll visit?" You're definitely not concerned with appearances now, the absolute joy on your face obliterating any trace of anxiety that may have been returning from earlier.  

Sans can't help but nod. He tries to work in as much reluctance as he can manage into the action, but you've hit the air above your head with a double punch of victory, and jeez is this getting any more unbelievable or what?  

Sans just isn’t looking forward to when it stops. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Sans chapter!!! I hope I improved since the last one. I think I'm going to try to switch off between Sans and Polaris with each chapter until someone else walks into the picture.  
> Speaking of!!! I have some idea of plot, but it's up in the air as to who does show up after a certain bone brother (I've deprived myself of Papyrus for too long, I can't handle it). If you'd like to see a specific Fell!character, let me know?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Polaris plays at the beginning is supposed to be part of the rework of Olafur Arnald's [For Now I Am Winter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GaR3fh66Nuo) by Nils Frahm, but sadly I couldn't find the chords. Oh! And when a certain king is mentioned, I was listening to "Carne Vale" from Homestuck's Cherubim album. Even if you aren't a fan of the comic, it's a wonderful album, and pretty fitting for the fell!verse.

The pale light of morning creeps across the floorboard of your home, cutting between the cracks and spreading across whorls  that stretch like waves in dunes of sand. White sheets of your bed crumpled, forgotten and left unmade. In the sink of your kitchen there are dishes unwashed, tomato sauce from a freezer aisle pizza becoming an adhesive for the cereal bowl atop the plate it's smeared against. The television that hangs above the fireplace in the living room has remained off for eleven hours now, but you've yet to remove the throw blankets left haphazardly on the couch's cushions. Your shoes are by the front door, still soaked through from traversing through puddles in the rain, and there are leaves stuck on the welcome mat. 

You know these things. They've reminded you of their presence a dozen times. But none of them feel to be good enough reasons for you to stand up from the bench in your dad's study and leave the piano alone. 

It's darker in this room then the others. There's a window that hangs on the wall with the piano, an old Upright that once acted as your home away from home. But because of the high walls of the building next to yours, natural light has a difficult time remaining in the study for very long. 

Your dad appreciates it, thinking it gives the study with it's bookshelves, and writing desk a cozier atmosphere. This from a man that would rather lock himself in the family library with the shutters closed then go outside on a summer's day.  

But today it acts as the backdrop for your current mood, a mood that decides that it's more entertaining to sit hunched over old keys, your shoulders draped in an thin blanket, then to eat breakfast.  

 _I'm not hungry_ , it says. You pick your hand up from your lap, and press down with your forefinger on one key, a single note echoing, until you shift to another. Harsher, this time, without meaning to. 

 _I'm not tired,_  it says. One note, another. The same finger, farther down the row. On the fringes of your mind something else is playing, fast, like the tinkling of distant chimes. 

 _It's alright_ , it says. You pick up your other hand and add it alongside the other, socked feet shifting over the pedals. Playing at the same time as that duet, but unable to merge with it. Theirs is spirited, a repetition of four beginning notes that shifts into something more complex, something for two pairs of hands. 

 _It's_ _okay_ , it says. The bottom lids of your eyes have grown heavier, and when you blink you feel a rush of shame when a tear lands between your fingers.  _Stop_ _._ This does nothing to help. You can still hear her playing beside your much younger self, her body swaying in the morning light of your memory-.  

Your playing trails off, and the silence descends again, fingertips brushing away from the keys. Reaching up you pull the blanket in tighter to yourself, and lean over again until your cheek rests against the coolness of the piano's sugar pine teeth.  

 ** _RAP_** ** _RAP_** ** _RAP_**  

Narrowing your eyes in a dull expression of question, you listen until it comes again, a series of sharp knocks on what must be your front door. 

Picking yourself up from the piano, you walk languidly out of the room, closing the study door behind you. From the small hall between the dining and living room you can already see movement beyond the glass of the door, the warped design giving no insight on who it could be.  

Striding over to the small foyer, you don’t even hesitate at the mirror hanging on the wall under the stairs. You had nothing ordered, your parents had not yet notified you of an upcoming visit... When you open the door you have to look up, and up, and-. 

 _Oh._  

"IS THIS THE RESIDENCE OF A HUMAN NAMED,  _PO_ _L-_ _AR_ - _IS,"_ the skeleton, skeleton!, demands to know, their voice only quieting two octaves when they drag out your name with some uncertainty.  

"You're addressing them," you reply, nearly wincing at the audible affects of your dry mouth.  

The skeleton's expression shifts immediately, from faintly waspish to outright angry. "YOU," he shouts, with a pointed finger of accusation. 

 _Me?_  

" _YOU'RE_ THE PATHETIC WELP THAT MY BROTHER HAS BEEN OCCUPYING HIS TIME WITH?" They seem positively baffled, baffled being exactly the word you would use in this situation with this individual. It's the way they carry themselves, with a sense of formality that isn't at all marred by the jagged edges of their upturned black sleeves, the torn remains of their red scarf, or the two deep, dark gouges that cut through the  surface of their left eye socket.  

If anything it works perfectly, and your lips are already partying in astonishment at the being that stands on your front stoop.  

"YOU DON'T LOOK TO BE ANYTHING WORTHY OF NOTE," he says this with his hands on his bared hips, the pair of red blips in their skull sweeping over your figure as you stand there in your baby blue pajama pants and white t-shirt. "IF ANYTHING I FIND MYSELF OFFENDED THAT I SHOULD HAVE TO GO OUT OF MY WAY TO SEE FOR MYSELF THE SOURCE OF MY BROTHER'S RECENT DISTRACTION AND YET FIND IT TO BE SO UTTERLY DISAPPOINTING!" 

The use of the word "it" in concern to your person doesn’t budge your approaching excitement, bells ringing in your head that make it all the better: "You're Sans' younger brother, aren't you?"  

" _PAH_ _!_   THE TERM "YOUNGER" IS HARDLY A MATTER OF CONSEQUENCE," they back hand the air. "I AM THE TERRIFYING AND ALL-POWERFUL TACTICIAN OF THE ROYAL GUARD TO THE KING, PAPYRUS, AND I AM FAR SUPERIOR TO THE ONE THAT WOULD CALL HIMSELF MY  _OLDER_  BROTHER!"   

He strikes a pose, _literally_ strikes a pose, with his legs set wide, and one hand set on a hip while the other raises in a clawed, red gloved fist. It may be due the weather outside, but even his scarf has begun billowing.  

To say that you're excited would be an understatement at this point. You're  _ecstatic_.  

"Buongiorno, Papyrus!"Papyrus startles when you dart behind him, picking up the ends of the scarf and marveling at the fabric between your fingers. "I'm so thrilled to finally meet you!" Papyrus makes a sound when you move back around and examine his boots, so tall that they nearly reach his knees, and bearing the same jagged appearance as the remainder of his uniform. "Sans has mentioned you but I never thought I would meet you so soon." 

"WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU DOING, YOU FILTHY CREATURE?" 

"Filthy! That's exactly as Sans said that you would describe me as," you say, finally straightening up with a grin you can't help. "I wanted to invite you over to my home, but sadly Sans has yet to contact me!"  

"AND WHAT EXACTLY DO YOU THINK YOU COULD EVEN DREAM OF OFFERING IN WAY OF ENTERTAINING MY ATTENTION LONGER THEN IT TAKES TO WIPE YOUR EXISTENCE FROM THE MAP," he questions with a grand sweep of his arm, or as much as he can do in the limited space. 

"You're Sans' brother," you state, raising a finger for emphasis. "That must mean you know plenty of embarrassing situations involving him!" 

Papyrus blinks, obviously not expecting this, but he doesn't shut down what your implying immediately either. "CORRECT! IF THAT IS ANYONE THAT WOULD CLAIM TO BE MORE PRIVY TO MY BROTHER'S WEALTH OF DISAPPOINTMENTS THEN MYSELF, THEN THAT PERSON WOULD BE A LIAR, AND THUS DESERVING OF IMMEDIATE ANNIHILATION AT MY HAND!" There's the fist again, and you must admit it is intimidating. "WHY?" 

"I seek to know Sans' better as a person," you admit, continuing even with a down turned twitch of his mouth. "In order to do so I would wish to ask for your advice. But it is not only Sans I am concerned with," you say, folding your arms loosely. Vaguely the weight of your blanket on yourself gives you the idea that you're wearing a cape of your very own.   

"EVEN IF I WERE TO CONSIDER FOR A MOMENT GIVING IN AND HELPING IN YOU IN YOUR INQUIRY, WHICH I WILL NOT, EVEN IF I DO FIND IT AMUSING TO RECOUNT TALES OF MISADVENTURE INVOLVING MY BROTHER..." He pauses for a moment, as if reconsidering, but starts up again. "WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY HOPE TO OFFER IN RETURN?" 

"A favor." 

"A FAVOR?" 

"A favor from a lowly human such as myself, sadly something that is still considered far outweighing the credibility of monster-kind," you say, frowning as the words escape your mouth, leaving a bitterness behind. "I would inform you of the workings of the human world, information that you might otherwise find some difficulty obtaining with the continued prejudice of my kind, and as a tactician of the Royal Guard, no, of the king  _himself_ , I would dare to assume that knowledge of the enemy is the most important thing you could even hope to obtain." 

Papyrus' teeth grate in his skull. His nose would flair at this you imagine, if he had one. He says nothing for a long moment, and when it does it comes with reluctance. "YOU ARE CORRECT HUMAN IN YOUR ASSUMPTION. KNOWLEDGE OF THE WEAKNESSES AND PURSUITS OF MY FOES IS PARAMOUNT, RANKING ABOVE EVEN THE ABILITY TO CARRY OUT PHYSICAL COMPENSATION WITH THE SWIFTEST AND STRONGEST OF RETALIATORY MEASURES." Here his eyes narrow. "FINE. I CONCEDE." 

"I have one last request." 

"A QUICK DEMISE? I AM NOT SO MERCIFUL." 

"No," you shake your head, you're mood holding less weight than it was previously, although you are not completely in the clear yet. "Only that you would take the time as we discuss business to grace my kitchen with your presence, and to teach someone as simple as myself in the arts of culinary magic." Placing a hand to your chest you bow, your other arm extended, and your eyes never removing from his face. 

Papyrus barely twitches, but you still catch the motion, growing more confident at the sight.  

"I HAVE SEEN THE WAY YOU HUMANS MAKE YOUR FOOD," he drawls, disgust evident in his tone. "THERE ARE FEW THAT WOULD EVER HOPE TO REACH MY LEVEL OF MASTERY IN THE FINE ART OF COOKING. SANS WOULD HAVE INFORMED YOU OF THUS, AND HE WOULD BE CORRECT. FOR ONCE," he rolls his eyes, as if saying Sans has managed to achieve  _something_  at least. "FOR YOUR SAKE, MY INFORMANT, I WILL DEIGN TO HELP YOU IN THIS ENDEAVOR. IF ONLY SO YOU DON'T POISON YOURSELF BEFORE I FIND PROPER USE OF YOU."  

With this Papyrus sweeps past you, and you stand erect, watching as his back disappears down the hall. 

"OH! AND CLEAN YOURSELF UP. YOU LOOK LIKE MY BROTHER. I WOULD NOT HAVE THE REMINDER FOR ANOTHER MINUTE." 

You hum in the back of your throat, closing the front door that he had left open in his wake. Your quick thinking on playing along with Papyrus' pride had been the right thing to do after all, even if it nearly led to you being impaled by his pointy fingers. 

It is widely known that monsters are supposedly a vicious and unmerciful lot, years of being locked beneath the earth festering a hatred for your kind that only grew as time passed. That they didn't immediately start a war with humankind upon exiting the Underground was due to the sheer number of your kind in existence... and also because of the decree of their king.  

Standing at nine feet tall with ivory horns rest in waves of red that appear like oil slicks across water amongst curls of black, King Asgore Dreemurr may vary well be the most frightening one of them all.    
When his liege stepped forth from the Underground with his people, mankind's immediate assumption was the Lucifer himself had rejoined the world of the above. Doomsayer's pointed to his "goat-like" visage and the crown of gold upon his brow, the mighty trident of red in his curled fist and the "army of the damned" that followed in his wake and stated that they were obvious signs that the End was nigh.  

Yet when monsters rejoined the world of the Surface, it was with a begrudging complacency. They remained on their mountain for months, following the every whim and commands of the nation's leader. 

When finally he was allowed to take the podium and his speech was broadcast to the world, it was one of a strict firmness. His people would not begin another war with your kind. Even with their magical prowess, they are outnumbered a hundred to one, and if there is anything he wishes to avoid it's the extinction of his species.  

 _"We did not step forth from the shadows to be flung into a deeper darkness none_ _c_ _an ever_ _yet_ _hope to escape."_  

Monsters will not fight humans, unless provoked. Not when so much is on the line. But it takes time for spite to boil down to a simmer, especially when it's cultivated anew with younger generations.  

You have no doubt in your mind that if you were to go about things entirely the wrong with Papyrus, he may find another way of dealing with you short of death itself. 

 _I can't decide if this_ _could be_ _better or worse_ _than one of_ _grandmother's_ _dinner parties_ , you sigh in your head, but pick up your feet. It's time to change, and you can't keep your guest waiting much longer. It would be rude, after all. 

 

(Slick) 12:02 pm

Sans, you messaged me! 

(Big Guy) 12:02 pm

shove that you have anyone over 

(Slick) 12:03 pm

Just your darling brother. I rather enjoy his company! 

(Big Guy) 12:03 pm

what do you have some kind of death wish

wait how the shit are you still alive (saved as draft) 

Sans pinched the bridge of his nose. What kind of fucking question was that? Blood-mad or not, Paps would never risk pissing off the king over one human, but that didn't change the fact that Sans is standing outside of your apartment sweating up a damn ocean. 

Even if he'd only seen you twice, the boss had been threatening to find out whatever the hell had Sans away from home for longer than a few hours at a time. But ever since they'd come to the Surface Papyrus had turned into a control freak, less time spent calibrating his puzzles and devising means of annihilating your species leaving him twitchier then a rabbit in heat. Paps had hit a goddamn wall, and that wall came in the form of the damn king.  

Resets ago and Sans would have done anything to tear Paps away from the influence of the Guard, and now all he wanted was to shove him back in it, if it mean he didn't continue to lose his freaking mind to boredom.  

(Slick) 12:04 pm

Nonsense, Sans! Your brother and I are getting along rather well. I'm having a lovely time, although I must admit our tastes differ somewhat.  

(Big Guy) 12:05 pm

what the shit are you on about 

After typing a quick reply to you Sans considered his options for only a moment before teleporting directly into your home. Shortly after he steps out from the void, he finds himself at the top of your stairs, scents of tomato and garlic wafting up from the bottom floor.  

"-NEVER ENDING VORTEX OF TRASH!" 

"That's astounding, Papyrus! Just think of what sort of applications a self-sustaining tornado could have, especially if the size can be changed at the will of the user!" 

"SUCH AS WHAT, EXACTLY?" 

"I have no idea! But I'm sure someone would have some clue as to what to do with it," your voice replies, and Sans would have to resist the urge to slap himself in the skull if it weren't for the subject matter. The two of you were talking about  _him_ , and even though he isn't in the room you're still as full as awe by his existence as you were previously. As it is Sans is only grateful that you aren't standing next to him, because his skull is on  _fire._  

"NOW IF MY PATHETIC BROTHER WOULD ACTUALLY APPLY HIMSELF, MAYBE HE COULD ACHIEVE SOMETHING OF MERIT BEYOND BEING THE WORLD'S LAZIEST SACK OF BONES." 

"I don't know, dear Papyrus, I think perhaps the level of skill required to reach such a mastery of procrastination is worthy of some applause." Sans has to take a few steps down the staircase and lean over the railing to pick up what you're saying now, your voice having grown softer in the meantime. He has to be careful, since his brother's levels of perception when it came to finding him can be damn ridiculous sometimes, but that's what years of practice did to him, even if he doesn't remember them all. 

"Besides, he has you, does he not?" Sans can practically hear his brother frowning along with him. "Sans may be facing something that, in the end, only he can hope to overcome. But with everything you've said about Sans, it all ultimately adds up to the fact that you noticed. You came to my home Papyrus to see for yourself what could possibly have given Sans reason to not stay home beyond work, and when you discovered that it was I, you had every chance of tossing my request to the wind. And yet you didn't." 

Papyrus is saying nothing in response, which is freaking weird all on it's own, but Sans can't think of a damn thing to think of either.  

"I think...if it were not for you, Papyrus, perhaps it could be much worse," you continue. Sans hears the bannister creek under his the strain of the grip he has on the wood, and releases it immediately. "And I'm grateful that is not the case. I may not have met him, otherwise!"  

"HA! SO YOU REVEAL THE TRUTH AT LAST! OF COURSE A HUMAN WOULD BE DRIVEN BY PERSONAL GAIN! WHY ELSE WOULD YOU WELCOME THE TERRIBLE PAPYRUS INTO YOUR HOME?" Sans' mouth lifts up at a corner. _i_ _'ll_ _be damned._ If he didn’t know his brother as well as he did, Sans wouldn't have picked up on the crack in his laughter. You're actually fucking getting to him.  

"ALAS, I CAN BE LENIENT WHEN NECESSARY IF IT SERVES A GREATER PURPOSE," Papyrus keeps speaking. Sans thinks he hears the sound of your oven opening and closing, the smell of baked spaghetti intensifying. "YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL, OTHERWISE YOU NEVER WOULD HAVE HAD A CHANCE TO SAMPLE MY MAGNIFICENT ABILITIES! BEHOLD!" 

It grows quieter as the two of you apparently start eating, your exclamation of surprise not ending with retching noises as he expected from you. Moving back up the stairs, Sans sits in the hall, listening dully to your continued conversation.  

Idylly he glances down the tiny hall, noticing that a door has been left open. Given into not at all restrained temptation, Sans walks over the door and pushes it further, peering inside.  

As he expected it's a bedroom, the mussed up bed with it's back board pressed against the wall to his right giving it away. Sans raises a brow bone at the sight of the turned up sheets. Sloppiness was the last thing he expected from you.  

Turning his eyes over the room, he notices a pair of doors on the left wall that must belong to a closet, another door on the bed's other side that might be bathroom, and a set of windows on the wall opposite of him. The room is pretty bare, with only a dresser to his immediate left and two end tables with lamps flanking the bed.  

Shifting until he stands in front of the dresser, Sans sees the clothing hangout of it's beige drawers, and handful of items on it's top. There are pair of gloves there, different then the ones you wore when you first met him, and two desktop picture frames.  

Sans picks up the one that's wider in width, and sees a trio of faces: it's you, remarkably younger and situated between two human males. One has a thick beard and brown hair, naturally tan skin peeking out from the collar of his plaid shirt, one button left open. The other man is leagues different in style, with long hair held up in a graceful ponytail, their face thin, and their choice of clothing more dress wear then casual. Looking between the two of them, it's obvious which one you got your looks from. 

And there's you, your mouth set as wide as Sans remembers, only with an array of metal stapled firmly to your teeth. You had  _braces_ _?_  For some reason he finds this to be hilarious, his shoulders still shaking when he places the picture back down again. 

In the second photo you've aged by a few years, but you're not quiet where you are now.  

The braces are gone, and maybe your hair looks more like something he'd seen on kids around the city, but you're not alone either. By your side isn't one of your parents, but a woman with round almond eyes and a pink tongue held between her lips. This person looks more mature than you do, physically anyways, and without a hitch something in his head tells him that this is the person that died for you underground.  

Sans sets the picture down immediately, the frame clattering against the surface in a way that makes him panic, and nearly toppling over. After rightening it, he escapes into the hall, taking the briefest of seconds ot close the door back to where it had been previously.  

When he enters the hall his apprehension returns, and he nearly jumps away. Your voices have picked up in volume, and he's careful as he peers around the corner of the hall to see down the stairs.  

When he sees Papyrus he jolts back momentarily, but his brothers back is turned towards him, and when he looks again, there's a baking dish with a lid propped up by his hand on his right hip bone. Papyrus opens the front door for himself, turning but not in a way that would reveal Sans unless his brother glanced up in time to catch him.  

"NOW THAT THIS INTERRUPTION TO MY BUSY SCHEDULE IS DONE, I MUST BE OFF," he says to you, and Sans sees the tilt of your mouth as you meet your brother's eye sockets head on. What the fuck does it take to shake you, anyhow? "REMEMBER HUMAN ABOUT OUR DEAL. I WILL REMAIN IN CONTACT WITH YOU AT ALL HOURS OF THE DAY. IF YOU EVER HAVE ANYTHING VALUABLE TO SHARE ON THE WORKINGS OF YOUR KIND, INFORM ME IMMEDIATELY!" That's just what Sans needed. You and his brother, being in cahoots with one another. Sans starts to feel something like relief when his brother steps outside, but Papyrus isn't yet finished, turning one last time. "SHOULD YOU SEE MY BROTHER BEFORE I DO, TELL HIM TO AT LEAST TRY TO  _ACT_  LIKE HE CARES. MAYBE IT'LL STICK." 

"As you will, Great and Terrible Papyrus," you reply, maybe laying it thick with that bow, but Sans doesn’t imagine it when his brother's chest swells at the compliment. But then you straighten your back and wave as he goes, calling out, "Buonasera!"

With that you close the door behind him, turning around to head back to the kitchen he suspects. 

"Sans, are you hungry? I have pasta!"  

 _?!?!?_  Sans nearly topples down the stairs. 

 

"And he tried adding glitter to the sauce, Sans!" You thump the table between the two of you lightly, wonder still written all over your face at this. "I'm truly astonished by your means of processing food, although it does make sense that yours would primarily be made up of magic," you say, picking up your drink and sipping it thoughtfully. Meanwhile his bottle of honey mustard is already empty, and both of you had finished eating.  

The honey mustard hadn't been his idea, he woulda been happy with plain, but you'd said something about adding sugar to your spaghetti, and thought that honey would be the perfect type of mustard to go with his own food in your opinion. Sans gave in without argument, frankly still confused as to why you hadn't said a damn thing about him being upstairs... but it was pretty good. 

"I had to tell him that humans can't process the normal store bought kind, to which he responded-" here you puff out your chest, your mouth falling into a thin line and your eyes hardening.  _holy shit_. ""AGAIN I'M REMINDED OF THE PATHETIC CONDITION OF YOUR SPECIES! IT'S A WONDER THAT WE EVER  _LOST_  THE WAR OR IF WE SIMPLY COULDN'T BEAR TO RESIDE WITH YOU ANY LONGER!""  

Sans spews a laugh from between his clenched teeth, and you soften at the sound, grinning like a fool. Cradling your chin in one hand, you have the gall to actually look smug, and Sans coughs, eyeing a particularly interesting spot on your dining room wall. 

"I do really like your brother," you say, and he allows himself to glance back. 

"you still haven't said anything about catching me in your house." A thought occurs to him and Sans' hackles rise. "how long did you know i was there?" Had everything you said about him in the end been said knowing he was there? Were you manipulating him on purpose-? 

Your smile shifts down, and Sans tenses. He's right, isn’t he? That he should have thought for a moment that you'd been honest-. 

He's not prepared for the dusky red that fills your cheeks, your hand going up to cover your mouth. "I have no idea. I wasn't sure even when I called out, and prior to then I thought I saw you briefly on the front porch through the window, but I shrugged it off. You...didn't hear much of our conversation, did you Sans?" 

"heh," Sans can't help the spike of confidence that seeing you flustered like this gives him.  _how the tables have fucking turned._ "just somethin' about you bein' grateful 'bout my brother and havin' met me." Sans' temporary upbeat attitude falters when he recalls what you said to Paps exactly, but he really didn’t want to delve into that with you sitting there. "whys that? you confess your undying love or somethin'?"  

You shoot up from your chair so quickly Sans nearly falls out of his, staring wide eyed into your own when you prop yourself on the table and lean towards him in a rush. "Sans! Papyrus told me that you could teleport! Actually teleport! I wasn't sure if he meant it exactly as I know it to be, but when you came downstairs, I no longer had any doubt!" Sans' grip on his mustard bottle tightens, but he can already feel perspiration on his skull and the red of his magic in his cheekbones with your next words. "Teleportation? Miniature whirlwinds? And the amount of work you picked up just to help care for your brother! Every time I think you couldn't be more astounding you surprise me, Sans!" 

Ah shit no, he can't take this. You're not even completely up in his face but he feels like he's about to fucking explode-! _Fuck it_. 

 

It's the scent that comes with a summer storm, and that's left in it's wake. A sweet, pungent zing that you're able to pick up even with the lingering smells of lunch still in the air. You stand there for only a moment, staring at his empty chair. "Sans?" 

There's no response, but you call out again, louder this time, listening for any sign of the skeleton in your home.  _Dammit._  It's a rare moment when you give into uttering vulgarities, even in your mind. You'd gone too far, hadn't you?  

Swallowing the  lump that threatens to tangle it's way into your throat, you shift your attention to the hall leading into the living area and move around the table. 

You definitely are not imagining things this time, but it takes the shifting of his weight on the other side for you to be certain that he's actually there. Your hand goes up to take the knob, but then you stop yourself, and let it lay palm up on the door itself.  

Moving closer, you touch your forehead to the glass, the tip of your nose brushing it's cool surface.  

"Sans?" 

The black form behind the glass moves, but doesn’t turn. "quit fucking with me, human. you've been spouting shit ever since we met and i'm getting tired of it!" You don't know why but that use of the word "human" hurts. 

"Sans, you may not believe me, but I've been nothing short of sincere since I met you."  

There's a snort on the other side of the door, and for the first time a flair of anger rushes up in you, but you shove it down. If what you had observed in your short time with the skeleton, and with what Papyrus had told you, Sans genuinely didn't believe you. You don't understand it, you're unsure if you can, but you need to try.  

"I wish you could see and feel as I do," you continue, grateful when Sans doesn't leave. "Every time I learn something more about you, I can't help but want to know more." His form shifts, and you don't know if you should feel hopeful or worried, so you opt for the former. "I'm pushy, Sans. I'm manipulative, and snobbish, and I have a serious problem with keeping my opinion to myself." 

Sans snorts again, but it causes that fledgling hope of yours to grow. "But I can't help the way I think, and I think I really want to be your friend, Sans." 

You close your eyes, trying to conjure up something else to say, to somehow bridge the gap and have him understand. But then the knob of the door twists, and your eyes fly open. You back away as the door opens, looking up at Sans from between your lashes.  

He doesn’t say anything right away, starting and stopping, his eye lights wavering and then returning, but you like the flush of red that graces his skull. You always liked it. "alright. enough with the water works. i'll stay," he scowls, faltering when your smile returns with a vengeance. "y-you really mean all that?" 

"Every word!" 

"jeez," his hands raise, as if fending off an attack, but he doesn’t back away himself, and you're hardly perturbed. "you uh..." He rubs at the temple of his skull, and you take in the motion with fascination, wondering if you're imagining his hesitation. "you got any of that dijon stuff?" 

 

"Sans, can I ask something selfish of you?" 

"heh. shoulda guessed you would. what's up?" 

You're blushing again, and now he's nervous. Not that it had ever damn well stopped. Currently the two of you had changed seats, switching from the table to the couch, and you rotate on your cushion beside him until you have one leg folded under you, while the other still hangs over. Didja have to get any closer? 

"Could I take your hand?" 

"why the hell'd you want to do that," he practically sputters much to his chagrin, and you wiggle in your seat, reminding him of one of those puppies he saw once in a passing store window, ready to pounce on him through the window until it realized it couldn't. fucking stars.  

"I...I really enjoyed the temporary hold I had on it the other day when we met," you say, muddling his thinking further. "It's not very often that I'm given such a chance that doesn't trigger an attack, so when I held yours and discovered that I could, well, I was rather surprised!" That's saying something. Sans had yet to forget the way you'd lit up when your fingers made contact with his palm. It makes his hands itch. 

"But I understand if you would rather not! I have probably run out of luck by now regarding remaining in your good graces," you try to laugh, but Sans can see right through it. 

"sure." 

"Really?"  

"yeah, _really_ , before i change my mind!" He offers a hand palm up, pointedly facing in the opposite direction to ignore whatever the hell you planned on doing.  

It doesn't come right away, but when it does it's much the same as the first. The fingertips of your right hand lay themselves gently on the edge of his palm, and then spread out, the underside of your fingers brushing against the mold of his bone that makes him very aware of what you're doing. But you don't stop there.  

You hand moves until it's on the side of his hand, your other hand coming up and cupping the other side, your thumbs pressing into the back of his hand, which you begin to  _move_. Sans turns his head back fully, watching in rapt attention as your eyes close, and you bring up his hand, his fingers curling slightly inwards, until his knuckles are resting in the junction between your nose and upper lip. 

When you speak he can feel your mouth move, your bottom lip barely brushing against the back of his fuses metacarpal bones. "Thank you, Sans." 

His jaw is stiff, stuck in a slack jawed position, and Sans can feel his eyes dancing in his skull.  He can't believe you. You can't be real. This can't be happening. But his Soul doesn’t care. No, he can feel it pulsating, practically burning in his chest, and it's all he can do to keep it from showing itself then and there.  

What if you saw it? What could possibly think? What could he possibly hope that would think? 

When open your eyes to peer above his hand, the sight shakes him to his core. He's never seen such softness before, not in a long, long time, and he doesn't know what do with it now that he has it again. 

So he doesn’t do anything.  

When you eventually lower his hand, he's grateful. He's frustrated. But you don't let it go, and he's fine with that.  

You see him away with a casual goodbye in Italian, but his response is nothing more than a mumble. If you noticed how quiet he is you say nothing about it, and that's probably the most he's been thankful with certainty all damn day. You just lean against the open doorway of your home, still there as he walks away, you hand raising with your smile as you wave when you watch him looking back. You look so damn serene with the dying light of the day on your face. You'll be there again tomorrow if he asks. It terrifies him.   

 His phone is ringing in his pocket, and he knows it's his brother, ready to talk his hypothetical ear off for being out all day. But Sans can't bring himself to answer. He'll 'port home when he's ready. 'Til then, he'll take his time remembering your skin against his hand, and your eyes boring into him over his knuckles like you can see into his very Soul. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowie, that was long, and I may have laid it on a little thick at the end...but I couldn't help myself! Writing fell!Paps was just so fun!  
> I'm not so sure on how well I portray fell!Sans, but you'll get to see his "vicious" side pretty soon with the arrival of another character.  
> Oh! About Polaris looking like one parent more then the other. In case there was some confusion there, I left that vague on purpose, as well as to what sort of ethnicity the "other man" with "long hair" has. Pol is ultimately whoever you imagine them to be, so I don't want to ever purposely set into stone as to what they look like.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This weekend has been a disappointment for me, and I'm afraid my frustration my show in this chapter, but I think that may very well be a good thing!

The fall afternoon catches Sans in the middle of a workday at this hot dog gig. It isn't the first shift he has worked today, the one previous to this one being at a warehouse downtown, but fortunately he's not due to go into Grillby's to act as crowd control until tomorrow. 

He's more than happy with the arrangement. Frightening away nosey humans that tend to poke into the bar to see Ebott City's hottest new attraction, Grillby himself, has gotten old pretty damn quickly. Sans had half a mind to accuse Grillby of putting him on guard duty so he doesn't personally look bad in front of his new legion of thirsty fans, but sadly Sans needs the pay. 

"still, ain't goin' to complain about a day off," he mumbles into his palm, propped up lazily against the counter top with one arm as he is. It's a pretty nice day anyways, if you count out the terrified responses of passerby's when they would notice him, and not to mention how distracted he's been lately.  

Since it's fall up on the Surface, the trees planted along the sidewalk and otherwise dotted around the grassy area are shedding their leaves. They fall in colors ranging from red and yellow, to brown and an occasional green. Whenever he walks around the neighborhood to work or home, they crunch audibly under his feet, brought with the cooling early winter wind and the occasional stubborn burst of a summer long gone.  

Sans may not ever admit to it anyone out loud... but he's damn well enjoying himself. Paps is no different, stick up his ass or not. All this shit is pretty damn new to them, after all. They had Snowdin's never ending winter, the intense heat of Hotland, and the dewiness of Waterfall, but each one of those areas were pretty stagnant. 

Snowdin has trees, sure, nettled things that rarely shed and never changed color. Waterfall has grass, always ridiculously tall and blue or even cyan, but never a deep green or the brown of death. Hotland has lava... and rock. It's fucking hot there, that's it.  

Point is, nothing ever  _changed_. But on the Surface, it doesn't very damn well stop. Sans knows if they move they could find something a little more stable, but as fucking scary as it is, he doesn't want that.  

And it is. Scary. You try living under the same damn ceiling of rock for an entire lifetime, hell a _hundred_  or so lifetimes in his case, and you see if all this shit isn't sensory-fucking-overload.  

Still. Someone try and shove them back down there. Good fucking luck. 

Sans is momentarily taken away from his private rant when someone with their dog walks by, the little mutt going haywire at the sight of him and barking up a storm. Sans doesn't bother with a snarl, that hadn't helped things the first couple of times, but luckily their owner jerks them back with an attempt at reprimandation. That is, until they see what their dog is barking at to begin with. 

Their face shifts from irritation, to surprise, to fear at a record breaking .32 seconds, and they're off. Setting down the sidewalk at a pace they probably thought was polite, but frankly doesn’t make the fact that they're  _fleeing_  any less obvious.  

 _n_ _ice._ _s_ _hit if it doesn’t take a hundred more lifetimes for them to get used to a mug like mine,_ he grumbles to himself. Least he doesn't have to deal with as many customers, he tries to reason with himself, but his soured mood doesn't budge. 

You sure as hell didn't need time to get used to him. 

And just like that the source of his recent slack-jawed stupefaction has come  _right_  back to haunt him.  

Sans could lie to himself and say that you didn't have a lick of an affect on him, but that'd be the biggest fucking lie he's ever tried to live with since he promised Toriel that he wouldn't try to smash Frisk's face in.  

Whoops. 

Sans still feels a little guilty about that. Okay. That's another lie. He's definitely a massive shit head for ever trying to kill the kid, but Frisk has forgiven him on more than one occasion, and that was kind of the normal handshake for monsters down in the deep. 

But now there's you, and so far trying to stop himself from thinking about you has been the biggest waste of time he's ever accomplished. You're like a damn chronic illness. No matter what he does, nothing seems to help, and you're hardly helping with the fact.  

 _Fuck,_  the last time he'd seen you the two of you had been sitting in your living room practically holding hands, and that took place after his little obsession with you began. No, that beauty began in the coffee shop, when some bigoted fuck had reacted to your conversation like you were going to shove their head up their own ass. You did that after  _sitting_  with him, and  _complimenting_  him, and  _shit_ he can still remember the red in your cheeks when you had done  _that_.  

 _"You look amazing."_  

 _"I'm_ _more interested in what you prefer."_  

 _"Every time I think you couldn't be more astounding you surprise me!"_  

 _s_ _hit,_ _i_ _'m_ _screwed,_ is his new mantra, if there ever was one.  

If you pissed him off things would be different. Hating someone is so much easier. Worse comes to worse, Sans could fuck a person over and that would be it. Anything less than that and no one would ever cross his mind unless he was face to face with them.  

But he doesn't hate you. He actually _likes_ thinking about you. It makes him feel  _warm_ , and _loopy_ , and god _dammit_ if not being able to think straight isn't something he could really fucking use more of. 

But then what the hell is your game? Do you really want to be his friend? His pal? Do you just want to use him for physical comfort since you can't seem to find it in some sentient anywhere else? Is that the case? Would he really honestly mind if that's all there is to it?  

Sans mulls this over with the memory of your hand in his playing on repeat in his head. He'd been alone with you in your house. Just you and him on your couch. What if it moved further than that? What if you'd asked to see his lumbar vertebrae, to run your fingers over the crest of his ilium, to-. 

"Sans!" Jolting from his heavy lean into the stand, Sans sputters out of his admittedly gutter bound line of thought and glances down the sidewalk. 

Speak of the goddamn devil, and there you are, but you're not alone. There are five creatures shepherding you in his direction, a group of fluff covered dogs of various shapes and sizes, all wearing leashes that lead one or the other of your two hands.  

Sans would be more surprised about the dogs if there wasn't a section of the park nearby cornered off just for the animals, but it's the fact that you're here with them that sucks the casual out of his slouch.  _act cool, act cool. c_ _uz yeah that sure as shit worked well last time,_  he thinks as you and your four legged companions approach, all of the dogs noticeably well behaved when they stop beside a food cart, with only one, the tiniest of the bunch, propping their paws on the front.  

"you're lookin' pretty dogged down there, slick," he manages to greet you smoothly, despite the war going on in his head.  

Totally ignorant to your affect on him, you step up closer to the stand with your posse happily laying on the ground around you. " _Dobriy_ _den'_ , Sans." you reply, then hold your chin between two fingers, cradling your elbow with your other hand in a thoughtful pose as your eyes flicker over what of him you're able to see from your position.  "It may just be me, but I'm in opinion that you look to be one hot dog today, Sans." 

The rush of mind-addled euphoria that shoots from his toes to the top of his skull from hearing a  _bad joke_  from  _you_ of all peopleisn't enough to stop the burst of laughter that erupts from his jaw " _B_ _AHAHAHAHA_ ,  _what the hell was that? d_ _id you seriously just make a shitty pun?_ "  

"Yes," you admit, and the wash of satisfaction in your features that came from hearing his reaction disappears with a heavy slump of your shoulders. "And I despise myself for it." One of the little fur balls by your side goes so far as to lick your gloved hand, another one of them whimpering, and Sans' laughter is just dying down when he wipes away a red tear.  

"that was amazing," he says, not at all feeling bad when your smile comes back immediately. "but seriously, what's with the animals?" 

"Oh, these angels are from my dog walking service," you reply while rubbing at the ears of a furred head, the one that'd had gone to comfort you a second ago. The mutt leans into your touch eagerly, eyes set peacefully half-mast. "It's one of my primary modes of employment at the moment," you say, continuing at the open interest Sans shows you towards what you're saying. He surprises himself with this, but he's been finding that lately you're pretty good at catching him unaware.  

Maybe if he learns a little more about you after all, he'll find out the truth as to why you're so stuck on spending time with him. s _hut up_ , he growls to himself privately, just resisting shaking his head in a poor attempt to dislodge the thought.  

"thought with your family name you wouldn't need somethin' like a job," he says, his voice lower than he wishes it would be because of what he had just been thinking.  

You must have expected this question, but you don't appear upset by it. "It's true that my parents have a great deal of wealth. But after the incident....I sought to find a means of supporting myself on my own terms," you explain, Sans lifting his brow bone at that little pause of yours. Don't think he didn't notice that. "I didn’t like the idea of living off the success of my predecessors, and admittedly distancing myself from others was a rather appealing prospect at the time," you say this with a rueful smile, Sans frowning himself at the sight. "I wasn't able to find employment while still living with my parents without it inevitably affecting what opportunities I was granted, though." Sans can imagine with that kind of money you would be a shoe-in with any place you apply for, that kind of influence most people would kill to have, but that hardly helps with a plan to do things your own way. "But I did what I could, when I could. The only problem was the phobia that I developed as a result of what happened." 

Sans snorts mirthlessly through his nose cavity. "can't imagine it'd be easy gettin' a job in public service when you don't wanna get too close to the public." 

"Exactly," you reply, your expression noticeably relaxing with his frankness. Sans knows better than to coddle anyone with issues even remotely similar to his own. It just pisses him off, how could it be any different from you? "Positions such as in the food industry have gloves for kitchen duties, but it's less acceptable when you're behind a cash register. But my gloves would easily be dirtied anyways, and tip toeing around others was tiring," you sigh, seeming distracted with your eyes set on a spot in the air. "On my resume was my name, but anyone that read the news or spoke to the right person knew about what happened. Influence or no, who could truly be comfortable with working around someone like myself? Someone that can not only sever any chances you have at finding work in the city but one that is potentially "broken" at the same time," you shrug, not commenting when your eyes return to his to notice the dark set of his jaw that he's feeling. "Despite my phobia being one thing that managed to slip under their noses, I'm still a walking time bomb to some people, the very situation that led to who I am today making it far easier to avoid contact with others then was ever allowed to me before." 

"gotta love the irony." 

Sans knows it's coming when your lips switch from their serious line to a genuine smile, his magic already gathering in his skull when you say, "That just means you have me all to yourself!" 

"don't say shit like that," he snaps weakly, your grin wavering. "might give some assholes the wrong idea." The  _like me_  goes unsaid, and he's not even sure if you pick up on it.  

"Sans, I'm honestly not concerned with the opinion of others in regards to our relationship-" you begin, the skeleton twitching at the word- "whatever it may be now or in the future. If I were to focus too hard on the distasteful ideas of others I would be in far worse condition than I already am." 

Sans grits his teeth at this, but you have a point. On the surface you appear pretty put together as a person, but he'd seen first hand at the café how damn well you manage to cover up what's really going on under the surface.  _s_ _hit if_ _i_ _like the idea of anyone calling you a "walking time bomb" though, as if whatever you could possibly do to hurt their pathetic lives could compare to what_ _you go through_ _._  

"Speaking of being all to you," you say, interrupting his train of thought and approaching temper. "When do you get off?" You glance over the face of the cart, as if looking for an hours sign, but he beats you to it. 

 _"_ six, why," he asks, already rubbing the back of his neck under his coat before he can catch himself. "you wanna...hang out or somethin'?" 

"I'm happy you asked," you reply, beaming. Okay, he'd run right into that one, but with the pure ray of freaking sunshine you're sending him, who's he to complain after living a billion years in the dark? "two of the owners of one of my friends here will be at the dog park soon to pick them up." You lean down, scooping up the smallest one of the bunch, the weird floppy eared brown one that's longer than it is tall. "Greenbean here is probably ready to go home." 

"pft, who the hell names their dog  _green bean_?" It only helps him snicker more then the dog fixes him with a shrewd stare, as if they know exactly what's going on.  

"A lovely couple from Venezuela," you reply, not rising to the bait with the dog, and sitting the pooch back on their stubby legs. "There is also Sienna the Brittany," you say pointing at a dog with orange-ish fur and freckles, moving on after you do, "Blaine the Golden, Patience the Australian Shepherd mix, Porifiro the poodle, and lastly," you bend down, scooping up someone he'd evidently missed before. Hadn't there only been five-- _what the shit?_ "This sweetheart," you introduce, holding up that annoying freaking monster from the Underground that'd been the bane of his brother's existence for years. "He's been following me since I saw him on the street and gave him a biscuit." 

"pol i don't know how to break this to you,  _but that's not a freaking dog_ ," he hisses through his teeth, AD not even blinking a red freaking eye and taking your hold on his midsection like a champ. Considering the damn thing is well known for  _never leaving_ _any_ _one_ _the fuck alone_  let alone standing still, that's fucking saying something.  

"Oh?" You blink, totally unaware of the terror in your arms. "Then that explains this," you say, and move your hand up and down the thing's side, revealing the red under it's white coat. "Isn't he amazing!"  

"….i'm starting to think that your definition of amazing is a helluva lot different than mine, slick," Sans grumbles moodily, rethinking that scene in the coffee shop with new eyes.  

Not at all seeming to notice this possible insult you place the dog down with it's companions, the non-monster dogs giving AD a wise amount of distance. Still, Sans had seen that damn thing rip someone's head clean off their shoulders. "your knack with befriending my kind is freaking uncanny."  

You hum happily at this, then sigh, raising his curiosity when you lean dramatically to the side, your expression falling. "And yet you find spending time in my presence simply appalling." 

 "i'll meet you here again after work." 

"Truly?" You brighten up immediately, Sans' smiling despite himself. "Thank you, Sans," you say sincerely. "There's this Nice Cream store I stop by sometimes and they have a new flavor, we can stop by on the way home!" 

"yeah, sure," he rumbles, his brain already melting around the edges just looking at you.  

After you send him a Russian "uvidimsya!" you meander away with the dogs down the sidewalk, AD still following dutifully after. Sans eyes the dog wryly for a moment. As long as the little bastard doesn't do anything questionable he suppose it'd be okay, but who knows how long that'd last. AD's the definition of unpredictable.  

Not long after leaving him he sees you meet up with a couple at the edge of the gated area for the dogs, a notable few steps of space between you and the strangers. When you bend over to hold the dog, there's the slightest wince in your expression when Green Bean runs their tongue across your cheek. 

"shit, i wish that was me," he mutters into his hand, slouching into the counter anew.  

 

"" _You_ _don't look terrible today_ ". Now that's certainly interesting." You're smiling down at the ribbon of paper you pulled away from your Nice Cream stick a second ago, far more optimistic about what hardly passes as a compliment in his opinion. But Sans is learning that you're a lot more light hearted than most people, it wasn't just him or that long eared jerk that wrote your message that he has to compare you to.  

"you really are somethin' else," Sans hears himself mutter, but when you hum in question he shifts topic, glancing off down the sidewalk of the residential street the two of you have found yourself on. The yards of the houses to his left are higher than normal, stout walls holding off the earth like dams but allowing footing up in gaps with stairways for every house. Human architecture varies pretty often on the Surface, and someone's front lawn being higher than he is tall giving him a strange feeling. "so how much does dog walking even pay, anyways? 

"It depends, really," you reply, and he returns his gaze back to you in time to see the flat of your tongue runs it's way across your ice cream pop. He immediately looks away again when a jolt of something hot shoots through his Soul. Did you  _really_  have to choose the red one?  

"yeah, uh, h-how's that?" 

"Whenever I take on a new client, I meet them in person first before I give them my fee," you say, by some miracle of the stars not picking up on the unsteadiness of his voice.  _j_ _ust don't look, don't even think about it._ "What I make is determined by their own level of income. If I see that they can afford it, I'll increase the price accordingly. But if they have other responsibilities that play a more detrimental role, I'll be willing to negotiate, or start off at a lower price than what I may charge someone else." 

"heh, that's pretty crafty of you, slick," Sans says, finishing off his pop in one smooth bite before chancing a glance in your direction. "pretty weird of you charge more to the class you're supposed to be apart of." 

"That’s just it. I should know what they can truly afford out of anyone," you smile, a glint in your eyes that frankly doesn't do Sans any more favors than that half eaten snack of yours does, but he's already smiling back himself. 

"that's fucking devious." 

"Says the skeleton who sets up his hot dog stand next to a dog park," you say laughing, and Sans joins you in an appreciate chuckle at the sound.  

"touche."  

"Speaking of, Sans you've yet to tell me-." 

It comes like a strike of lightning, faster than a blink, and formed out of pure light, but so powerful is it that the breeze it creates has trouble catching up. When it does your hair is jostled, but the two of you have already stopped: your eyes widening in awareness in time with his own. But it doesn't register what has happened exactly until you lift a hand to your right cheek, the barest hint of your flesh smoothing over the mark it left behind causing your face to twist in painful surprise.  

Sans get's a glimpse of the mark, and it looks like a burn, wrongness rolling in his Soul with the sight of your flesh marred as it is. The anger is already rising in him when his eyes snapback the front, and he sees where it, that burst of magic his own nature tells him, came from.  

"So the rumors are true," she's saying, stalking down the sidewalk towards the pair of you, and at the sight of her pointed grin and narrowed yellow eyes. "Sans! You've gone and gotten yourself a human pet," Undyne hisses, her long, red tail of hair swinging with each step she takes. Without her armor another oddity is presented to him, but even in jeans, a t and a hoodie of her very own, Undyne's shoulders are squared for battle. When her eyes swing to you, still clutching your cheek, your right eye shut tight in a wince, his magic boils over in his eye, red and glaring. "I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU EBOTT," she shouts, a spear of red materializing again in one of her hands just as she goes in for a swing. 

Sans reacts without thinking. One moment he's standing next to you and the next he's placed himself in the way of Undyne's attack, jagged bones erupting from the earth before him with a twitch of his fingers.  

The magical spear bursts across their surface, erupting into nothing, but Undyne's roar gives her away before she comes jumping over the barricade, clear over the two of you, and landing on the other side. Sans is between you and the monster in an instant, another attack blocked, but one with extra weight as she keeps her grip on her weapon as she stabs down.  

Undyne lets it dissipate, and Sans lowers his barrier so he can keep an eye on her. When she bounces back, creating distance, he makes his move, another wave bursting from the wall to her left and shoving her into the street.  

Undyne is nearly flung into a passing car, the owner swerving in time to instead stop with a loud screech on the sidewalk on the other side of the road. She doesn't pay it any mind, and neither does he, watching Undyne when she raises another spear, yellow this time, and flings it like a javelin.  

Sans knows better, countless resets spent watching over the kid, and how can he not? Rather than block in from the front, he switches gears, a wall of bone erupting immediately from behind the two of you, and catching the spear just in time.  

The captain throws a red spear, it's blocked. Yellow. Blocked. Two reds, and a yellow, all blocked. When she jumps up and tries to attack from above, he simply 'ports the two of you away. You stagger in place as your both arrive a few feet further from where you had been originally standing, the pain in your face momentarily forgotten when even your right eye widens in wonder:  _"Sans."_  

"you okay," he takes time to ask, an uncomfortable amount of concern pressing on his chest from his Soul. But you're the reason why he's doing this, every ounce of his essence shouting that he protect what's  _his_. Because that's how it is, that's how he's been unconsciously seeing it ever since you pressed your palm into his hand in that damn alleyway and found comfort in a damn monstrosity of a monster in a way even Paps hasn't in years.  

You're his now, and there's no way in  _hell_  he's letting anyone lay a _fucking_  finger on you. But you're already hurt, it's already happened, and he's  _fucking_  pissed.  

"SANS!" Undyne is yelling in fury, two weapons in hand, rushing forward towards him like a damn bull. This is more unstrung than he's ever seen her before, and maybe if he had time he'd think on that. But right now he's raising his other hand from his pocket, he's gripping his finger bones closed, he's 

 _watching you run directly at her._   

Sans doesn't have time to do anything the damn well about it because he's still processing the fact that it's happening at all. There you go, stepping between him and a freight train of scales. You're raising your hand, tossing something with a part of his teeth, a shout for your name prepared to come when Undyne meets the thing head on. 

The bag smacks her clean in the face, stopping her in her tracks with a mouthful of " _what the hell?_ ". Sans is wondering if he's imagining the bone shapes that erupt from it, but then you're running back towards him and gripping his arm. He lets you pull him along when you shout a "Come on!", turning in place to run just as something white flies past his skull in a blur.  

There comes a yelp as AD must have hit Undyne, the dog all tongue and teeth, but neither of you stop to watch the carnage. Instead you're both running down the sidewalk away from the scene of the crime, Sans stupidly forgetting what he's capable of for a few beats until he 'ports the two of you away again. 

 

The two of you are still running when you both hit the back of your couch, the furniture protesting loudly across the wood flooring at the sudden impact and knocking it askew.  

Your hold releases from his arm, and Sans hears the hit of your ass against the floor before his skull whips in your direction, taking in the sight of you clutching a hip with one hand, teeth gritting in pain from the bruising it must have got from the furniture.  

 _"what the fuck was that_?"  

"I-I had to stop them-." 

" _with what? Some fucking dog treats? Are you fucking stupid? You could have fucking died!_ " Oh, he's mad.  _He's absolutely livid._ But he's also on his knees, your feet between his legs as yours remain bent loosely before you. His hand is moving on it's own accord, reaching for your face when you slap it away.  

" _Enough_ , Sans!" 

The impact of your skin on his bone sends a shock through his system, a hurt not caused by the strike itself, but by the fact that it came from  _you._ It's a physical pain, one you shouldn't be capable at your size and lack of magical power, but it still makes him flinch. 

"I will _never_  allow anyone to risk their life for my own," you snap, the calm, collected anger of your expression hardly dampened by the tears that are escaping from your eyes. "I won't allow it to happen again," you say louder now, a fist striking the floor beside you as your composure cracks. " _I refuse_ _!_ " 

Sans snorts loudly without missing a beat, standing up from the floor but meeting your defiant gaze eye for eye: "well guess  _fucking_  what, asshole, you don't get a say in that."  

You apprently have nothing to say to this, instead allowing a few seconds to pass until you sigh softly through your lips and raise a hand to your eyes, covering them like you're suffering from a migraine as a result of his reply.  

"where's your damn 'kit?" 

"The kitchen," you readily reply, and Sans walks around you towards the dining room, not turning his head when you start to stand.  

He enters the kitchen and starts digging around, but you're striding into the room, automatically walking over and removing it from a cupboard from the sink with a silence that irks him. When you place it on the dining room table and sit down, he's there, standing in front of you and opening it before you have the chance. 

"i'll do it," he says, cutting off the beginning of whatever you're about to say, and you close your mouth, cheeks flaring childishly. His anger has already been tempered by your refusal to allow him to touch you in the living room, and this just cools it further, lowering it to a dull simmer.  

Inside the box is the typical assortment of medical junk that he's used to seeing in the kit at Toriel's, but it's hardly been touched. This just makes it easier for him to find what he's looking for, some ointment, medical table, a cold pack, and gauze. Rather than pull it all out right away, he takes your chin between the fingers of one hand, examining the wound as his other hand pulls out the pack and crushes it in his grip. 

"How is it that you know what you're doing," you ask, your jaw bones moving beneath your skin and subsequently the hold he has on you as you speak. So your natural curiosity has more sway over you then any anger does. Just grateful that you might be calming the hell down, he examines the wound thoroughly. It's large, a swatch of angry red with a blister or two already bubbling up, but better than it could be. 

"frisk get's into trouble sometimes," he answers, a little distracted at the moment, and you frown at this, but not because of anything that happened earlier.  

"The human that helped you in the Underground?" There's a hint of something in your voice he more than recognizes, that same awe that sent you in his direction in the beginning, and it's lifting the edge to his own voice with every passing moment.  

"yep," Sans replies, taking the by the cold pack and applying gently to your face. "kid's a damn magnet for pain." That was putting it lightly, considering the shit show they landed in, the Underground where his kind had lurked for centuries. Keeping his hold steady, he takes the gauze from the box and rips the packaging open with his teeth, setting it aside after and then grabbing the tube of ointment that his magic twists the top off with ease. You hand lifts and presses to the back of his own, showing that you're willing to take the burden from him, but he doesn't budge.  

He's more than used cleaning up after the kid after every damn scrape, bruise, and sprain they seem to accumulate only when he's watching over them it seems like.  

Your hand returns to your lap when he doesn't move his own. Sans has to admit, he likes the sight of you acting submissively for once, even if it's against your will to an extent.  

"Are you close?" 

"tch, if you call being a general pain in my ass, then sure," he replies, flipping over the pack to it's colder side is pressed against your skin. "...i owe that kid. we all do." 

You sigh again, your expression finally shifting to one of tired complacency, but otherwise earning an agitated "what?" from him.  

"You are not the only one, Sans," you reply, the softness in your words blowing a hole in the walls he's brought up in the meantime. He grunts in what he hopes sounds like indifference. 

"yeah the others do, too, i guess." His eyes dart away from you and back again, taking in the upwards tilt of your lips when you breath a laugh. You don't even argue with him about it, and Sans doesn't know what he'd rather you do. Forcing himself to focus on his task, he removes the pack from your face and gets to work again. 

The ointment doesn't bring about the same wince that the pack did, and you don't audibly complain when a discomfort crosses your face. After the ointment comes the gauze, taped to the side of your face until the wound is completely covered. The nature of the wrapping should allow some air to get in, Sans learning along the way what exactly it was a human needs to recover from such things.  

It isn't like his kind, where a bit of damage could be repaired with a body's natural magics slowly over time, quickned if someone they knew could use some kind of healing, which is more common then someone might think with all the infighting that went on. Sans isn't any good at it of course, a fact that always irritated him, but fortunately it didn't take Paps too long into his formative years to get good at defending himself.  

 _now he doesn't need me at all_.  

"Sans?"  

Now you're the one concerned, and he frowns, annoyed with himself. "nothing." 

You're upset again, he can tell, but you don't stress his remaining patience, only frowning and generally looking displeased. "Who was that?" 

Taking this chance you present him to change topics, he replies greedily, "undyne, the guard captain. my bro's boss." This prompts another change in expression from you, but Sans' doesn't get his hopes up that'll last. "i'm guessing paps let it slip that i've been with you, but since she's not here yet, she probably doesn't know where you live." 

"What will she do to you, Sans," you ask, a hint of fear there that's been seriously lacking up until now. 

"ain't  _shit_  she can do," he replies waspishly, knowing sure as hell he can pound that overgrown fish into the asphalt any day of the damn week if he's offered the chance. 

Rather than start another argument, you merely shake your head softly. "After what I witnessed, I think I can trust you in that regard." The stern set of your mouth droops gently, your eyes almost appearing pained in away that makes Sans wish you were back to yelling instead. "It's obvious why she would want to hurt me, but you're apart of this merely by association. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if something did happen. Please be careful, Sans." 

Uncomfortable with your close scrutiny, he turns his skull, resisting the urge to bury it in the neck of his sweater. "...go lay down. i'll stay down here, maybe check with paps." If any time spent taking care of Paps and Frisk, it was that the bigger the incident, the more tired they were after it, and, honestly, you look like you could use a nap. 

Your chair creaks when you stand up. He tenses when you grow closer to him rather then backing off, your arms coming up around his neck as you bury your face into his jacket, only inches away from the crook of his neck, between his clavicle and the underside of his jaw. 

Your voice comes in a mummer that he can't possibly miss, breath barely reaching the surface layer of his cervical vertebrae but still somehow sending a jolt down his spine. " _Thank_ _you, Sans_ ," you say, his eye sockets wide and unblinking. This is the closest you've ever been to him and to some degree he's freaking the fuck out. Already beads of sweat are forming on his skull, and he's faintly disgusted with himself, paranoid that any moment you'll look up and realize your mistake.  

"You've saved me twice now." 

"h-heh, wha-whatever," he sputters, his arms twitching to wrap around you, to fling you over or crush you to his chest, he doesn't really know. He's not sure which would be worse for him to do, but you're not moving away either. "what are you doin', trying to cop a feel? i-i know we haven't exactly  _held hands_  all day." 

You hum thoughtfully in response, making him blink rapidly. "You could say that," you finally respond, causing Sans to stiffen in the chair at the richness of it. "You of all people know how I yearn to be touched." 

It takes Sans a hundred years of practiced self-control not to give in and pull you to him right there, to scrabble for purchase on every inch of skin you have available, and bury himself inside you: in your hair, your scent, your _everything_.  

You have no idea, about him, about what happened, about how repulsive he really is. If you ever do, this will be over faster than he can 'port himself to the bottom of the ocean. But if there's anything the two of you have in common, it's the want to have some sort of physical contact, and  _fuck_  he wants to take you and never let go.  

His hands are creaking at the strain he's putting on them, but even if he can stop himself from doing anything, he can't stop himself from thinking it. 

_mine, mine._

 

It's darkness that greets you when you open your eyes. You're aware that you've been sleeping, but unaware of what's woken you up, a shifting of movement and an additional weight on your bed prompting you to stir. 

Reaching over you click on the lamp beside your bed, and still clutching your pillow to your chest sit up. 

AD has your legs trapped between his own, two paws on each side of the length of them under your blanket, and his red, dripping eyes locked on one of your arm as you attempt to rub the sleep away from the other. 

" **HUMAN**. **THE PACT HAS BEEN MADE** , **WRIT IN SUSTENANCE AND BLOOD**. **DO YOU ACCEPT**?" 

 _How'_ _s he saying_ _that without moving his jaws?_  

"Yea, whatever," you reply, voice thick with exhaustion, and lay back down. You put in enough effort to turn the light off again before cuddling back into your pillow, breathing a yawning sigh into the fabric. 

 _Tired, tired._   _Dripping...why_ _dripping?_ _Dripping...._ _stripping..._ _yipping_ _..._  

 _Wait._  

 

"SANS." 

Sans is at the top of your stair case in a beat and ripping open your bedroom door, the sight before him sending his already overflowing magic into hyper-drive. It's everywhere, on the walls, the ceiling, the floor, your bedspread: red, smeared,  _blood_.  

"POL!" 

"In here!" Your voice comes from the crack in your bathroom door, and he 'ports to it instantly, the amount of force causing the wood to crash into the wall. 

"P-!" His shout dies in his throat when he sees you there, on your knees and rubbing at the eyes of a certain freakish hell-spawn of a mutt. There's blood alright, but it's not coming from you.  

Are you fucking serious. He thought Undyne has showed up, that you were hurt, or dying, or being tortured, or  

"Sans, I need help! He won't stop bleeding," you plead, obviously scared out of your wits, and Sans slumps in on himself.  _t_ _hank the fucking stars._  

He spends the remainder of the night helping you restrain the mutt, you using all of your towels to clean up the blood as he explains that  _yes_ this is fucking normal and it was sort of one of the reasons why he's convinced the dog is more demon then monster but by the time you're on your couch, curled under a spare blanket, he's just as exhausted and the dog is still in your arms, sleeping alongside you.  

He sinks himself into the other end of your couch, blushing when your feet move to press against the side of his leg. He's too tired to panic over it, and before the clock on your coffee table can tick for a third time since he's sat down he's out like a light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another mixed pov chapter! That last scene was one of the first I came up with for this one, and you may have noticed that POl is far less articulate when they've just woken up, but I really wanted to go into what exactly Pol and Sans do for a living in this chapter. They have other jobs then what's mentioned, but I'll touch on those later.  
> The next chapter should start from Pol's perspective, but it'll introduce a certain human child and their normally thorny older brother.  
> I'll see you all in the next chapter of TSB! ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been marinating for awhile, and I think I'm pretty happy with it. Enjoy (ﾉ^ヮ^)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

You've only just finished arranging an assortment of cookies on a serving plate complete with a small bowl of icing at it's center when the knock comes: a solid three hits you know could only belong to one person. Hurrying over to the foyer you check your appearance briefly in the mirror hanging on the all below the staircase and then walk to the door, swinging it open with a wide, welcoming grin already on your lips.  

"Hóʔą, Sans!"  

Sans appears nothing short of perplexed by this, his brow bone raising on one side as he stands there on your front stoop with a hand still raised to knock. "say what now?" 

"Hóʔą, it's a Chipewyan greeting for welcoming someone into your home," you explain readily, raising both hands to gesture to him. "It literally means "there's room", that is, for those wonderfully broad shoulders of yours!" Sans stiffens, a rush of red flooding into his skull, while you're positively delighted at being able to finally use the greeting, and for such a suitable person, no less! 

There comes the sound of laughter, as you had hoped, but rather than coming from your boney friend, it comes from somewhere down beside him. Your arms falter as you glance down, and there, peeking around his leg, is a child.  

Anyone who's even the slightest bit interested in monster-related news would recognize them. With their signature bowl cut hair and wide, friendly grin, the would-be bridge between monster and human relations is everything the television promised and more in person: they look positively adorable! 

"Sans! You didn't tell me this is who you would be watching for the day," you exclaim, falling to your knees immediately so you're at eye level with the child. Sans scratches the back of his head, his eye lights shifting with uncertainty.  

"uh, yeah, guess i forgot to mention that." 

"Hello, there," you speak directly to Frisk, noting how confidently they move to stand in front of you in their junior sized coat and flower-dotted Converse. There's a red backpack over their shoulders you assume must hold their things, which they hold by it's straps with two gloved hands. "You wouldn't happen to be the wonderful Frisk Saivor that I've heard so much about?" 

They bob their head without hesitating, their expression paired with their wide grin and shining eyes positively charming in composition.  

"Marvelous," you say in earnest, presenting a hand that they take to shake without hesitation. "My name is Polaris Ebott and I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime!"  

"tch, that's a first," Sans mutters above the two of you, and you look up with a frown. "most people want to throw the kid into the nearest active volcano." 

"That's positively horrid," you gasp, a roll of disgust in your stomach at the very idea of anyone even thinking such a thing, and to a  _child_ , no less. "I'm guessing it has to do with them being the current savior of all of monsterkind," you inquire with a thoughtful tap to your chin. 

"bingo," Sans drawls in response, smiling mirthlessly. 

You sigh and address Frisk again, a certain edge to your voice as you speak, "To think that anyone would hurt a child, and all for being a decent human being." Sans makes a sound you can't decipher, and you stand, moving aside so they might step in.  

"You're welcome here whenever you like, Frisk. All vindictive good for nothings can remain at the door," you state clearly with a sweeping gesture into your home. Unexplainably Sans begins to look awkward, but Frisk reaches back and pulls him through, the skeleton saying nothing about his reluctance to enter. Shrugging to yourself, you close the door behind them. 

"where's the mutt," Sans asks with a suspicious eye around your home, but you wave it off. 

"It's no worry; AD disappeared just an hour ago. Hopefully, they'll be no repeats of last night's incident while we paint. Feel free to go on ahead, I'll be just a moment," you say. Frisk reacts right away, bounding up the steps with vigor, and you get another look at their pack. Curiously, it seems to have a rather odd shape about it.  

"careful up those stairs kid," Sans rumbles in reprimandation, distracting you away from the sight. "tori'll have my head if anythin' happens," he continues, and starts his way up himself until he catches your eye. Warmth has flooded your stomach at the sight of him scolding the child, this parental image an unexpected, but rather appealing look to him. "w-what?" 

"Nothing," you hum, and turn to leave him staring after you. It's not until you're in the dining room that you hear him ascending the stairs, but you try not to think on the red of his cheek bones....not too much, anyways.  

After grabbing the snack platter you return to the foyer and then take the stairs to the second floor, stepping lightly as to avoid stumbling and potentially dropping it. When you go to stand within your bedroom's doorway, Sans is standing within next to your small step stool at the center, peering about with his hands in his coat pockets. Meanwhile Frisk is nearby, their nose level with the window's sill as they stand beside it. Their pack is open at their feet, and you see that they've pulled something from inside: a simple, clay pot.  

They seem to be making themselves comfortable, something of which you're only happy about, considering the smears and splatters of red still on your walls. You had been previously apprehensive about the idea of a child entering a room covered in blood of all things, but, over the phone, Sans had chuckled upon hearing of your concern. 

 _"kid's seen_ _worse_ _underground._ _gonna_ _take more_ _than_ _a spill like that to scare 'um, slick."_  

You had admittedly been tempted to ask for details on that, but were hesitant to delve into something that's obviously so personal. Sure, there's what Sans has told you about the Underground, about it being kill or be killed, and also the rumors in the wind on monster lifestyle in general, but that isn't enough information in your book to make guesses on anything. Perhaps, in time, you will learn more. But in the now, Frisk looks perfectly fine in your recently cleared out bedroom, not sparing a blink at the marks of red on the walls around them. 

"I brought snacks," you say, and their hands drop from the pot once it's situated on the floor, excitement dancing on their face when they see what you've brought. They run up to meet you as you walk over and place the plate on top of the stool, Frisk gesturing in a way you believe you recognize.  

" _Thank you_ ," they sign politely, tapping their lips with the tips of the brought together fingers of one hand, and you can't help but laugh lightly at their undisclosed pleasure.  

"You're welcome," you say, tapping your lips with the tips of your fingers, and then lowering your hand until your palm is facing up, much like you would were you to blow a kiss. Miraculously, Frisk brightens even more with your response, the child existing as an physical embodiment of pure sunlight in your bedroom. Without warning Frisk darts around the stool, and time fails to even slow when they reach for you, arms encircling your neck, their cheek against yours.  

It takes a beat, two, three, and you understand what's happened with a sudden inhale. 

They smell of cinnamon and sweetness, a scent you try to focus on with all your might to prevent the scream that builds up in your throat.  _A child, just a child, only a child,_ repeats within the storm that builds up like an approaching hurricane in your skull, a soft rumble followed by a full on storm, but it's not enough, and when the noise grows too deafening you're barely aware of when your hands go up, and you push them back.  

Frisk falls with a thump on their behind, but you've managed to put three feet between you and them. You're barely even noticed that you've moved until palm meets with the wall of your bedroom where your dresser once stood. 

Silence descends upon the room save for the harsh hiss of your quick breathing, and the that shock is palpable in the air feels lightning  in your veins, making you shudder with each tight exhale.  

"I-I'm-I'm," you try, but fail. Dropping your head in shame, unable to the two pair of eyes fixated in your direction. You exhale deeply in a poor effort to ground yourself, and start again, the tremble in your voice becoming clearer. " _I'm sorry_. _I, I just, I c-can't_." 

"shit," Sans mutters harshly, and you flinch as if physically struck, certain that it must be a result of your treatment of Frisk, whom you had only just previously mentioned could never deserve such cruelty aimed at them. But that didn't stop you from snapping, from fleeing the instant they drew too close.  

 _What sort of_ _hyp_ _ocrite am I?_  

" _fuck_ , pol, i forgot to tell them." 

The disgust in Sans' voice catches you entirely unaware, but you have to force yourself to look up between your lashes to see that it  _isn’t_ aimed at you. Rather, his hands are out and clinched tight at his sides, but his eye sockets are ever so slightly narrowed on the plastic covered floor, discomfort thick in his voice. 

You don’t like it, seeing him like this. You want to stand up, to walk over, to say, _it's okay, it's okay, it's all my fault,_ but your muscles feel like lead, seizing up when you attempt to move.  You can't even comfort a friend because of your fear, a fear that was triggered by a  _tiny_  child.  

When Frisk moves and your eyes follow them, a rabbit watching a fox, and they sits up until they're on their feet while facing you. The tears you expect to see are not there, not in the very least any anger as far as you can tell, but when they take a step forward in your direction, you inch closer to the wall even so. Frisk approaches you with care, but you find no frustration in this, so fixated are you by seeing what they're going to do next exactly. 

You simply watch them carefully, noting the distance between the of you when they finally stop. They start to lift their hands, and you stiffen, their movement stopping as well. Even with their gloves still unremoved, every inch of you is adamant in not risking touching them again.  

Frisk tries again, and you swallow, watching silently. Your brain fails to pick up on what they're signing at first, but when you read them correctly, the shame is brought on you anew: "I'm sorry, I should not have hugged you without your permission." 

A sound escapes your mouth, very much like the one Sans made at the door downstairs. Frisk is the one apologizing? And to you, after you basically threw them aside?  

"F-Frisk, I-." 

They shake their head, silencing your attempt at denial. "No, I should have asked. I'm okay, really," they say, and their smile is wholly sincere with this unnecessary apology. You try to come up with some other reason to dispute, but no sooner do you try, that they put their foot down, literally, and you see that there's no way you're getting out of this.  

Frisk refuses to let you feel guilty for this, and although it hardly chases away the lingering weight in your gut, you sigh, and nod, giving in. You can still make up for it later, and find some way of thanking this child for the infinite wealth of patience that they just displayed.  

 _It's a no wonder that this is the one that would save monsterkind._  

Speaking of monsters, your eyes trail to Sans, still standing as rigid as a statue a few feet away.  

"Sans," you say, shifting awkwardly in your spot on the floor, just trying to have your body obey for a moment. You try to will yourself to stand, but even with your hand on the wall, you can't manage it. Your legs have softened into jello and refuse to budge, your heart is still quaking in your chest.  

It's been awhile since you've felt so utterly useless. 

Frisk is the one who approaches the skeleton, and you watch as they again take hold of his shorts,  tugging gently to guide him over to you, if with some insistence at first. You have to tilt your head to meet his eyes, far enough until the back of your head meets with the wall, and Frisk stands away, giving some space. 

"Sans, please, it wasn't your fault-." 

" _b_ _ullshit_ , how the fuck could i forget something as basic as that so damn easily!" His eye sockets have gone dark, no lights in sight, and worry eats its way into your throat. 

"It was an honest mistake, please, don't insult yourself." How often, after all, does anyone hear of your condition, let alone know of someone particular that has it? With personal experience, you know better than to assume that anyone would become so immediately accustomed to remembering such a thing.  

 _It's not as though we've spent very much time together, not yet._  

You breathe through your nose, closing your eyes for a few beats. You have to try again. You aren't entirely happy with the idea that comes to mind, but if it works... 

Opening your eyes, you speak: "Sans, if you perform one task that I ask of you, will you please forgive yourself?" Sans says nothing to this, and you take this as a sign to go on. "Will you kneel down and hold me?" 

Sans twitches in place, sweat erupting on his brow, and you're afraid that you've ruined a chance at salvaging your relationship, until he speaks with a helpless gesture of his hands: " _w-w-_ _what the heck would_ _yo_ _u want_ _that for_ _?_  what kind of question is that, shouldn't you be telling me to shove off? what kind of person are you?" 

"As I've said and will say again," you state, smiling weakly. "A selfish one." 

Sans doesn't immediately react, but when he does, your breath stills. Robotically he moves until he's crouching in front of you, and reaching forward. It's as though some spell over you has broken and you move into his embrace without hesitation, amazed by how easy it is to smother yourself in the relief of his embrace. You exhale into his coat, and then breathe him in. Your arms are secured around his neck, his arms around your rib cage with one hand on one of your shoulders, while the other meets with a hip. He's so large, he could probably envelope you entirely if he wanted to.  

 _This i_ _s_ _what sanctuary is. It's not a roof over my head, it's a pair of arms, and, god, does it feel right._  

Something changes with Sans when your hold tightens on him, and his statue-like posture softens, the weight of him leaning into you a tad or so more, and it means a world of difference.  

"i'll never understand you," he says, close to your ear and his voice vibrating through you, both of which bring you into laughter. 

"I'm still learning, myself." 

You hear something strange, and Sans must be just as confused, because he lets you go although your hands remain in contact with one another, and you both look over to see Frisk  _clapping_. A rush of heat invades your face and you release Sans entirely, an embarrassed laugh escaping you at the display you must have given them.  

Right, Frisk is here! You somehow almost forgot!  

Utterly done with yourself, you say nothing about Frisk's apparent relief over the two of you making up, but you can't help but notice that although Sans stands up to put some feet between the two of you, he's just as flustered as you are.  

 

After having pushed over Frisk, you feel as though they're more then due an excuse as to why you had your melt down to begin with. Child or no, you expect a certain amount of bafflement from Frisk when you tell them that you have a strong aversion to contact with any sort of human skin other then your own, but their expression is only thoughtful when you finish. 

It's a sudden shift in mood that brings their natural brightness back to their face, which prompts some curiosity from you at first, until they sign: "Does that make Sans your safe space?" 

Blood rushes a new to your cheeks at once, and a glance at Sans betrays that he's even worse off then you are.  Although laughing lightly in an attempt to unwind the situation, you respond with honesty. 

 "That would be correct, actually," you admit, and hear Sans sputter from beside the two of you, but you continue in your explanation despite this. "Considering how long I've lived with my condition, to find someone at last that I can make physical contact with, it is a monumental relief."  

Frisk appears thoughtful for a moment. "You're comfortable with Sans because he's not human. Does that mean you could be cuddle buddies with any monster?" 

That's a good point!  

Becoming thoughtful, you take note of Sans' narrowing eyes. The thought doesn't anger him does it? Has he perhaps been wondering that himself, and is irritated that he's been placed in such a position when anyone else could have very well been? Rather than settle on assuming either way and make light of his feelings, you tell yourself to ask him about it later. 

"I can imagine that I would be fine with any monster, truly," you reply to Frisk's question, Sans snorting with a scowl. "But I am happy with my current relationship with Sans," you say with a smile. "Although it would be nice to have many monster friends in the future, I very much enjoy what comfort I can derive from Sans, as exploitative as that may be of his good will towards me." 

Sans appears incredulous almost, but that doesn't remove the flush of red from his cheek bones. You really need to ask him about this...  

"alright, alright! 'nuff about on this shit," Sans bursts out, and you can practically see steam rising from his skull. "we came over here to work, not talk about our relationship!"  

"You're right, Sans, I'm sorry," you say, noticing his double take at you with the word "relationship", but wanting to placate your friend. "We can discuss it later." He stiffens, sweat beading across his skull, but you decide not to make things strange for him and remark upon it. Standing slowly on shaky legs, you sigh when you manage to hold yourself upright.  

Your outburst has left you feeling tired, but you still have work to do! 

"Okay, let's get to work," you say, trying for a grin of confidence. Lifting up the end of your shirt, you use it to wipe the cooled moisture from your brow, dropping the material back down after. Now that you feel slightly more refreshed-. "Sans?" Where have his eye lights gone again? They were there just a moment ago! Concern wells up in your stomach, but before you can ask he shakes his skull, turning around and walking over to the small pyramid of paint cans that sit where your bed once was. 

"n-nothin'! we workin' or not?" 

 

Sadly, it takes a while before you're steady on your feet again, but things could be much worse, considering past experiences... 

Shaking away those dark thoughts, you get to work with your small team.  

Frisk is enraptured by the simplest of task of opening the paint cans, going so far as to trying it themselves after they've removed their coat and gloves, leaving them beside their pack and pot. With their best efforts, you have to loosen a lid before they can open even one, but their stubbornness is certainly worthy of admiration.  

With three open cans around the room, two on the tarp covered floor, and one on a short step ladder, you all get to work wielding your individual paint rollers.  

Sans is tall enough that he for the most part doesn't need a ladder, but the uppermost corners you deal with yourself, balancing on the next to top steps of the ladder while being careful as to avoid jostling the can next to you. Frisk, being the shortest, is given the duty of starting off at the bottom, but it's one you more then willingly ask them to do, since crouching down on your knees for too long a time might send your feet to sleep, or, worse, hurt your knees in the long run. 

Frisk tackles the job with a fervor, loving a task that requires painting a room of all things when they could otherwise watching television or relaxing as a whole, but you enjoy their enthusiasm.   

Sans is surprisingly careful, and yet thorough with his work, giving you an idea that maybe he's done this more than once. When you ask he replies without looking away from the wall you are both working on, Sans standing to the left of the ladder while you stand perched on its right side's steps.  

"had more then a few odd jobs like this to do in the underground." 

"Truly? Considering also the positons you hold on the Surface, you must be a jack of all trades by now." 

Over the phone Sans said that other than finding employment as a hot dog salesman, he's also muscle for a local bar, and in addition to those he also works in a warehouse downtown. You've always appreciated people who work hard for their living, and you're more then grateful that he's found time to help you while watching Frisk for a friend at the same time to boot.  

 _I'll need to make it up to him_ , you muse to yourself.  _For this_ _, and everything else._  

Sans grunts, him standing near enough to your ladder that you could reach over to touch him if you had mind to, and he shrugs a shoulder. The snarky smile he sends your way is something you internally rejoice at; if he's acting like this, he must be feeling better about earlier, and is that some semblance to  _cockiness_ you see? "heh, 'suppose i'm pretty talented." 

Oh, there's definitely some pride there! The sight of it, small as it is, sends a spark of eagerness up your spine. That's definitely something you want to see more of.  "You don’t say," you say, propping a hand on your hip while keeping your hand occupied with your roller, and daring to let your lips slip into an interested smile. "And what other areas of expertise are you hiding under that belt of yours, Sans?" 

Sans' face shifts abruptly, one eye-socket widening while the other narrows, and his grin dropping into a startled frown.  _Now that's a curious expression,_ you think idly, your smile weakening when your interest gets the better of you, but Sans cuts off any question you can think to muster about it. 

" _what the hell do_ _you mean_ _by that?_ " 

With his sudden exclamation he jerks his empty right hand in the air and it makes contact with the can of paint beside your leg. Color erupts from the unbalanced can, liquid splashing out as the two of you are only given enough time to stare in shock as it topples to the floor, with a loud _thump_ _!_  

Blue spreads in a pool from the can onto the floor, but everyone only watches it progress in dumb silence, your eyes blinking away when you finally notice a feeling of something  _cold_  on your skin and another effect of Sans' mistake. 

"Sans!"  

"ah, shit," Sans curses upon seeing what you have: the burst of paint that's currently seeping into your left pant leg. "uh, sorry 'bout that, slick," he mutters sheepishly. Rather than respond verbally, you frown crossly, and being to step down from the ladder. Sans watches you closely, "hey, hey, we can clean this up, easy," but you don't respond, stepping over to the spilled. Sans falls silent when you bend down, and without warning you swipe a hand through the paint.  

He's looking at you oddly in your peripherals when you straighten up, but when you turn around to start over to him, it clicks as the smirk you can't restrain spreads across your face. "whoa, back off, princess-!" The warning tone in his voice goes entirely unheeded, and dodging his raising defense with his hands, you reach up and  _smear_  a coat of paint across his skull with your hand, starting just above his brow bone and ending at his chin. 

Frisk bursts into silent laughter from across the room, their shoulders jumping as mirth takes over their face, and when Sans just stands there your composure breaks, a stutter of laughter escaping from the dopey grin that smothers your attempted at appearing malevolent. 

 _"hey!"_  Sans shouts whenyour snickering turns into full on giggling, your eyes closed from the strain of your amusement, so you aren't prepared when liquid  _cascades_ over your head.  

 _"What the-_ _"_  you burst out, wheeling back from the skeleton and nearly falling over your own feet as a result. His guffaws fill the room, and you wipe a hand across your eyes, blowing out drops that have managed to escape into your mouth while you were laughing and  _someone_  decided to dump a bucket of  _paint_  on your head.  

" _serves you_ -" paint flies across the room in an arc and hits Sans, the monster's arm half-raising uselessly to block it when it's already too late. Meanwhile Frisk is practically a mess on the floor, both of their hands covered in blue from their own can near their feet. "oh, you should'na done that, kid." 

Frisk stops laughing immediately, and you see their eyes widen when a distinct red glow lights up the shadows of Sans' eye sockets 

 

"You know...I don't think I mind it." 

Your bedroom has become a warzone of color. It's mostly blue, but what paint managed to make it onto the walls during the struggle actually covered the blood, for the most part, and with a few rubs of the three rollers the rest is quickly done away with. Some it might need a new coat, but as you look around you notice that it doesn’t look terrible. 

 _Magic has so many uses._  

Sans wasn't happy about Frisk's attack, and what followed his declaration of warning was an onslaught of power, the skeleton using his gravity-defying abilities, rather literally, to fling paint at both you and their child friend. It was a largely one sided endeavor, but both you and Frisk teamed up to do what you could against the big guy. Sadly, it's hard to cover a person in paint when he can shield himself and toss it back at you with nary a thought. The only real loss are the cookies, now lying in a sad heap under their serving plate on the floor.

"whoops," Sans mutters from beside you, but with his hands pocketed and that grin of his gleaming so bright, you know he's not being sincere. Frisk shrugs, but their grin is much more apologetic and genuine, provoking a breath of amusement from you at the contrast.  

"It works," you say, running a hand through your hair and humming in appreciation, until your eyes notice something by the window. "Oh, Frisk!" Walking over to the window, you kneel down to take up their pot, examining it guiltily, "There's paint on your...." 

There's a face. 

In the dirt. 

There's dirt in the pot... 

And there's a face in the dirt.  

"H-heh, h- _hi_ _,"_ the face squeaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saivor: Anagram of the word "Savior" but pronounced as "savor", meaning to appreciate while dwelling on something, like the taste of a food. Frisk was given it by fell!Toriel, and, in her case, it has a naturally more malicious intent behind it. Also a nod towards the name Dreemurr, which is an anagram of the word murderer. 
> 
> Okay, news time! Anyone who follows my other story as well as this one may have noticed that it's most recent chapter is gone. From the get-go I was uncertain about that chapter, but it took the incentive given to me by a commenter to take it down and decide to give it the proper attention it, and ultimately all of TSB, deserves. I've always loved that story, but recently I've been really out of it while writing it, and to be honest, it seriously shows. Although I'm not going to toss all of it's content, I am going to give it a makeover, and I really want to endeavor in the future to not be so wishy washy about my own writing. You guys deserve better! And so does TSB!  
> In the meantime, I thought I'd finish this chapter of UTM, which is primarily supported by my desire to write fluff and nonsense.  
> "For the time being", the plot bunnies mutter ominously from the shadows.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chap is a mix of both pol's and sans' pov. i meant to keep it restricted to pol, but i just can't help myself with the snas-man sometimes
> 
> this chapter was written while listening to the following: https://play.spotify.com/user/1221919445/playlist/6cFaC4OTlX4t2Vmv9OtzjU

When you were seven your dad convinced himself that he could become a master gardener. The family lawn sculptor had begun to plant a fresh bed of petunias on the western side of the property when your parent had followed them into their workshop and tool shed when a clay pot had been jostled off of a shelf and nearly brained your dad into oblivion. Your dad took it as a sign for his next big serious endeavor, one to add to a long list of that includes kayaking, writing a novel, and learning to play water polo. 

Never mind that he had wrecked his kayak while insisting on standing while rowing, or that ninety percent of his book consisted of werewolf He-man-esque love-porn, or that he happens to be afraid of horses. Never mind that it was due to his typical excited flailing that the pot had fallen at all. 

"An Ebott remains vivacious above all else," he would always say. 

You adored your dad and leapt at the chance at getting dirty while creating something together. Father always fussed about keeping you clean, but he never stopped you when it came for you to don your favorite white and green striped shirt, and running to the garden with your very own spade in hand. 

Your dad spent weeks on that garden, but it went terribly. The two of you did all you could to get the flowers to grow, from asking your father to play music for them once the seeds were planted, to buying the best but most organic fertilizers you could buy. You even tried the dance you learned from one of your favorite movies,  _My Friend Tonomo_ , but no amount of chubby arm waving did the trick. 

In the end one lone, pathetic speck of green sprouted, but it drove you and your dad to wild exuberance. You thought it had to be due to the magic you all performed together, something only possible with a lot of hard work, chanting "Grow, grow, grow!" and due to your dad's sheer amazingness as a person. 

In the meantime, your father didn't have it in his heart to immediately tell the two of you that it was merely grass growing. 

It's been years since you've thought of that garden. But seeing the wide eyes of the yellow buttercup in your hands brought the memory back to you in a flash, and you can't help the fullness of the smile that comes after they speak. 

"ʔédlánet’é!," you chirp in delighted greeting, hesitating when the flower suddenly manages to burrow themselves farther into the pot. Blinking, you finally notice the trembling set of their mouth, the quivering of their petals, and your father's good sense takes over your dad's spirited attitude. 

"Frisk," you begin, turning around to the child to place the flower pot at their feet. You do so gently, and put some distance between you and the pot afterwards while remaining crouched. "You didn't tell me that you brought a friend over!" 

"I'm sorry," they sign over their chest with one closed fist. "Sans is supposed to watch me and Flowey, but he didn't feel like saying hello." 

"kid's a bit of a scaredy cat," Sans rumbles, but you shake your head. 

"It's okay, that just means he was spared from your show of skill during our little paint battle," you laugh, saying nothing when Sans skull colors while he otherwise appears guilt free wearing a toothy smirk of his. Seeing a smidgen of yellow over the brim if the pot, you take your chance as it's presented. "But I must introduce myself," you say softly to the flower, reassured when he doesn't immediately sink back into his soil. "My name is Polaris Ebott, and I am very happy to make your acquaintance." 

 

Watchin' you talk to Flowey is like watching them try to talk to a frightened animal. It's not far off the mark, but it's more like you're treatin' him like he's a scared cat or a nervous kid then a monster capable of ripping your sinew out through your eye sockets. 

Sure, he may as well be a little of both, but that doesn't stop Sans teeth from gritting ever so slightly when Flowey pokes their head out from their pot, just enough so their eyes show. 

" _H-h-_ hi. Hi, again." It's all the Flower can muster but it's all Pol needs to start smiling again like the sun's just come out on a shitty day. Their excitement is dialed back a lot more then normal, and he guesses that it's more for the flower's sake, but it has enough of an effect that even Flowey can't stay stuffed into their pot for too long. 

"His name is Flowey," Frisk uses their hands to speak for your sake with you watching their every gesture like a hawk. "Flowey the flower. He's my older brother!" They finish the introduction with a warm explanation mark he can see in their Soul, and damned if your eyes don't light up even more. 

"Your brother? That's wonderful," you exclaim, sitting up when Flowey doesn't make a move to hide away again. "I thought I saw some resemblance." 

"Really," Frisk asks, mirroring the confusion he feels and the curiosity that draws Flowey's focused attention. 

"You both….remind me of the sun." 

Although Flowey glances at Frisk, clearly mystified, it clicks with the kid right away. Stuck with no way of hugging you in response, they settle with clapping in excitement and beaming a 100 kilowatt smile. 

It's the same one Frisk wore the first time Sans offered them a free meal at Grillby's, and the very one they wore when everyone escaped the mountain to see the sun for the first time. It was just Frisk's hand in his, and the old damned world ahead of them to take on. 

 _yeah...._ _i_ _know what you mean_ _._  

"so, we done here with the paint job,"he asks out loud, gesturing with his chin. You give another glance around, but otherwise you give a nod; the blood hadn't been that thick anyways.  

"Yep. I will take care of the remainder of the work after it dries," you reply, standing up from the floor and back to your full height. "Now there's the little matter of the clean up," you give a smile with a look at him and the kid that he realizes comes with an apology. 

Making a sound of question, Sans glances over himself and the kid—and stiffens immediately.  

Sans is barely touched by paint save for what must be still on his face, and some blue on his shoes. The kid's a different story. Frisk is covered in paint, from the top of their neatly trimmed hair to the bottom of their shoes.  

This isn't good. 

Frisk mimic's your expression, but whereas you were obviously amused, they look down right guilty, and he knows it's because they can already hear what he's thinking:  _tori's going to kill me._  

 _"_ _i_ _'_ _m_ _freaking dead."_  

Your expression abruptly changes to something more hesitant, before you begin to smile again, "I'm guessing their guardian will not approve of their makeover?" 

" _you don't understand_ ,  _pol_ ," Sans tries, taking you by your arms and looking down at you with every inch of height he has over you. It doesn't mean a dam nthing though, becvause he can feel himself on the edge of trembling, sweat beading on his skull like dew drops collected after a few steps into Waterfall. "tori's freaking  _savage_. she's not goin' to let frisk go anywhere near he carpets in this condition, and that's not even mentioning what she's going to do when she sees her kid like this to begin with!" 

Sans could just imagine her glowing red eyes piercing through his Soul, ripping him from the inside out. He'd never get to watch Frisk again. Hell, he might not even survive the initial encounter with the broad. And it wasn't like he could just take Frisk to his place. Paps wouldn't hesitate to let the goat lady see what Sans had done, his loyalty to the crown was so damn high. There was also the matter of messing up their house, too boot. He and Sans had moved out of the Underground months ago but Papyrus still hadn't let the matter of that damn sock left in the living room drop.  

 _he'll be harpin' at me over that even once im_ _dust in a ditch somewhere._  

"I have an idea," you suddenly say, taking him off guard and away from his inner rant. Apparently this whole time he'd been going on you had been cooking up something yourself, and he dares to feel an ounce of hope when your customary bright eyed smile takes over.  

 

Turn's out your idea involves moving a bit of furniture you have stacked up in a bedroom down the hall. Sans' had glanced at the open door on his way up, thinkin' he had spotted some pastel colored walls, but beyond that the contents were hidden by your bed and dresser. When you told him what was up, he leapt to action right away, 'porting your bed down to the living room without having to scope out the downstairs room before hand. 

You watch him with rapt attention, standing behind him with your mouth in a soft oh of interest as he stands a few feet from the bedroom, literally working his magic. When the bed manages to make it's trip without any problems, your soft exclamation fills his chest with a puff of air.  

Figures the dresser wouldn't be so easy. 

A  _crash_  comes soon after it blips away, and you jump in place, his bones going stony when he comprehends that something had to have broken downstairs. Frisk bolts past the two of you and down the stairs, you only taking a few steps down before the kid is back and signing away.  

"It's okay! It just fell off the coffee table!" 

You sigh audibly in response, but your mouth lifts up in some amount of relief, just enough so that he feels his shoulders relax a fraction. 

"Thank you, Sans," you say, turning away from the stairs as Frisk comes bounding back up. "I really should ask you to do some heavy lifting for me more often," you say in away that's like the many times previous when you've talked about him, and he feels his Soul warm comfortably in response.  

"heh, uh, yeah," he shrugs. "whatever." 

Smooth. 

"That should be everything," you say, not appearing put off by him in the least and walking smoothly past him, into the room. He hovers outside awkwardly, although Frisk has no qualms about going inside with Flowey in their arms. Still feeling weird about your pseudo-compliment, because man how is he supposed to get used to that, his eye sockets widen when you poke your head back out. "Come on in!" 

You disappear back inside, but he takes an additional moment before approaching the door. Standing in the doorway, Sans can't help it when his eyes sweep over the room in evaluation, partly due to instinct, but mostly because he's damn curious. 

It's definitely a bedroom by the looks of it, and it definitely belonged to a kid at some point. The walls are artfully decorated with low hanging clouds of various shades of purple on a lilac backdrop running across the white trim that separates them from the wooden floor. The ceiling is another shade of purple, and pushed into one corner, next to a window, is a bunk bed. The top bunk is covered in pillows in a rainbow of colors, but both have thick, light blue blankets and white sheets. There's a wooden chest next to the door to his left, one floopy arm of some stuffed animal sticking out, and there arm more, over stuffed animals hanging out at the end of the bed.  There's a round carpet in front of the window, and drawings taped to the walls in scattered groups, Frisk examining one of them with a pointed finger that has Flowey nodding.  

Although there's a door next to the chest, you, on the other hand, head over to the one set into the wall opposite of the bed, opening it up and blocking out some of the light barely concealed by the gauzy curtains that hang over the window.  

"I think I have something that fits," you're saying, behind down to reach inside, his view of you cut off by the closet. Frisk scurries over to your side as the sound of sliding wood reaches him. "A shirt and some shorts... does this look alright?"  

Frisk bobs their head up and down in obvious approval, but Sans doesn’t move further inside to see what they've chosen.  

"Splendid, you'll look adorable," you say, stepping out of the closet with a bundle of clothing in your arm, and stopping only to push what he assumes must be a dresser drawer closed with your foot before you close the closet behind you. "Now, you can get changed into these, and Flowey will see to your hair," you say, heading for second mystery door. After it opens, a light is clicked on, and he hears the soft patter of two pairs of feet on tile as the two of you enter. "In the meantime, your old clothes will be washed, you'll get to go home spot free, and your mother will remain none the wiser." 

Sans huffs a laugh once you close the bathroom behind you, giving the kids some privacy, and you look lost for a moment on his response. "gotta hand it to you, slick. i didn't expect a nefarious bone in your body before this." 

His appreciate glance is interrupted when your mouth blooms into a smile. But something in him knows better as you speak along with it's appearance, "That's the secret, Sans. You never judge anyone based on outward appearances." It's there, just for an instant, but there's a gleam in your eyes that matches your actions, and he feels something in him shiver, the memory of you standin' up to that smuck in the cafe coming back to him for the millionth time.  

 _i've_ _gotta remember to watch them,_  he thinks to himself, eyes following your back as you descend the stairs outside of the room with him following after.  

"Besides, I would never want anyone to think for a moment that you aren't worthy of overseeing their child's care," you turn your head to look up at him from the bottom floor, Sans barely aware that he's stopped mid-step on the way down. "With everything you've done for my sake, you've more then proven to me that you're nothing short of being an absolutely admirable individual." 

Sans doesn't budge an inch as you walk through your foyer and in the direction of your dining room, side stepping your bed as it lays propped up against the back of the couch. 

Why do you have to go and say shit like that? One second he's as cool as a damn ice drake, you know, as cool as he can be around you anyways, and the next you're spoutin' off something like that and he can't think of a damn thing to say! Hell, he can't even  _walk_  properly- 

"Sans, are you thirsty?" Your voice carries out from the kitchen and he twitches in response, his eye sockets as dark as pitch in his head. 

" _n-_ yeah!" His poor excuse of a reply gets him moving again, sort of, as he goes ahead and pops over to your dining room rather than taking the long way down. Which, of course, would require the ability to actually  _use_  his damn legs.  

You barely flinch when he appears, earning another inch of admiration from his part to add to the collection, and you already have drinks in your hands as you're approaching the table. Sitting down your glass of tea at the same time you leave a family-sized bottle of garlic mustard on his side of the table, he stands there when you pull a chair out. Sans manages to grab the bottle and pop the top off with his thumb and you sit down, the bottle barely away from his mouth after a hearty gulp when you speak again.  

"Sans, there was something I wanted to ask about earlier." 

Sans stills. He does like the way your mouth is set, or how you're watching him, your eyes searching as you fail to provide him with the typical smile he's used to.  

"uh, you're gonna have to fill in the blanks there, slick," he manages to say, replacing the bottle and finally taking a seat, but shoving his hands into his pockets where you can't see them. 

"It's about what Frisk said, about our relationship." 

Yeah, he doesn't like the sound of that. 

Sans was kinda afraid that you had some idea forming after Frisk had dropped that little epiphany on your shoulders, one that, frankly, had him nearly turning his hands into his fists all over again.  

 _"Does that mean you could be cuddle buddies with any monster?"_  

The kid had a point. If contact with human skin really is all you have problems with, didn't that mean you could find another monster to snuggle up to whenever you wanted? Hell, you already know his brother, and there's no telling what monsters you've meant since running into Sans.  

 _"I very much enjoy what comfort I can derive from Sans..._ _"_  

As if he alone is enough for you. But he doesn't  _get_  it. Sans knows what sort of person he is. He's a big, brutish bastard for crying out loud! What part of red eyes, sharp teeth, and a chip on his shoulder the size of the New Home capital building screams  _safe_  to you?  

"I meant what I said previously in my room, about my favoring the idea of your company over all other monsters in this circumstance," you're saying, and Sans tries to hear your words through the haze of confusion in his head, just trying to  _get it_. "Perhaps, in time, I will have more monster friends. Maybe, someday, I'll even conquer this phobia of mine. In fact, I hope to capitalize on both of those aspects."  

Then what the hell are you trying to say exactly? That you wanna get closer to other monsters, but he's also, what, you're favorite or something? 

Frankly... Sans isn't sure that he entirely dislikes that idea. It's the thought of you canoodling with others that just gets him,  _fuck-_  

"But there's something about you, Sans." 

 _say what now?_  

You're looking straight into his eyes, imploring, irises alight with color, and Sans is enitely helpless to looking away from them.  

"I find myself drawn to you in a way that I haven't been, I think, ever at any point in my life," you say so effortlessly, with the barest firmness to your voice, while something's secretly detonating in his chest. "I mean everything that I've said about your person, and everything I will say in time. What you've done, and who you are, they've both had a remarkable effect on my well being. But there is one thing I refuse to selfish in, and that's your continued attention to me." 

Sans is still to much of in a shock to process fully what's going on, but he's been stuck on a permanent free fall since meeting you, so that's nothing new. When he says nothing, you push on, strangely seemingly upset with yourself of all things, as for the first time you lower your eyes and glance away for a beat.  

"If you no longer wish to help me regarding my condition, I hope to hear your honesty now. The idea of dragging on any discomfort that you may feel towards the matter when I could very well perhaps find another... it repulses me entirely." 

 _That's_  what this is all about? The way you had started thinking up a storm in the room earlier, he assumed you were considering other options, once you somehow didn't even know were out there until then. But...you'd just been thinking about how he feels the  _entire_  time?  

But that's not the kicker. You actually decided, with your completely intact, fully functioning human brain, and your present sense of self, that you're fine with choosing him over anyone else? 

And you're  _drawn_  to him? 

There's gotta be something wrong with you. A screw loose, a nut in need of tightening, maybe a therapy session or two to arrange. Yeah, that's it. There's nothing more to it.  

 _"heh,_ slick, you're gettin' your underwear in a twist over nothin'." 

Your face falls blank until disbelief takes over, your lips forming into a frown. "Sans?" 

"ain't nothin' to worry 'bout, i'm just fine with how things are," Sans shrugs, and what he's saying slips out damn easily. Thing was, he'd thought about how much he wanted to be in your life  _ages_  ago. He still remembered the possessiveness that washed over him after Undyne had attacked you, shit, and the absolute  _rage_  he'd felt when she dared to try take you down. Sans had been ready to rip that fishy fuck to hell and back, and was  _going to_  if you hadn't of stopped them. 

As far as Sans is concerned, he already knows he want to be in your life, one way or another. But preferable with how things are if he has any say in it. And here you are, offering it up on a silver platter, with more added to the pot then he would have ever thought could be possible.  

Sans doesn't entirely understand what you mean by being drawn to him, though. It sounded sure as hell nice, but for all he knew it could be like... being obsessed with something strange, or, or, freaking, uncanny. Something so damn weird you just... had to stare at it some more, you know? Fuck, he doesn't know what to think about it. But the sure as shit doesn't mind it, not exactly, anyways.  

"Do you mean to say, you will remain, as Frisk worded it, my safe space?" There it is, that hint of a grin, and he's already feeling better about seeing it again.  

Whatever it is you mean, this is all still damn well new to him, and while he's still working it out, he might as well fall back to something he does know.  

"heh, yeah. but are you sure about this," he cocks a smirk and a brow, just daring you to back off. "who's to say I'm not just tryin' to get in your pants, eh, slick?" 

You hum cryptically, but that smile of yours is widening, and something about it causes his confidence to falter. "If that were to be the case, I must admit that I am a bit of a traditionalist," you say with some humor. Angling forward, you cross one leg over the other, and prop your chin up with one hand, resting your other on it's arm and meeting him eye for eye. "I wouldn't say no to a date, first." 

 _a_ _h, shit, are they being serious?_  

You don't even blink. 

 _t_ _hey're completely serious!_  

" _f-fine_ ," he stutters out, leaning forward with one arm braced on the table, closing that distance between you and him just a little more. "i know a place, best damn burgers this side of the hemisphere." 

"That sounds wonderful," your previous mischviousness trades places with earnest excitement, and he swallows unnecessarily. "How soon can we go?" 

"tomorrow. 'round six." 

"Fantastic," you reply, and your eyes soften, further rooting him to his spot. "I'm looking forward to it." Do you mean that, or is he getting his hopes up that you mean more about it then just your plans for tomorrow? 

 _"F-Frisk!"_  

Sans immediately jumps off from the table, putting a clear amount of space between you and him when the kid just seems to magically appear at the end of the table holding Flowey tucked to their chest with one arm. The flower is looking between Frisk and him with obvious panic in his eyes, but his sibling is just  _smiling,_ and an uncomfortable ping of warning goes off in Sans system when he spies it. 

"Frisk, all changed," you ask the kid rhetorically, and Sans notices that you have not been as fast to retreat as he was from you. Standing up from your chair, you approach the kid and take the bundle of clothing they have in their other hand, looking them over with a blossom of smile that's so different than what he was looking at before. At least, he thinks it's different. 

 _s_ _hut up, sans._  

"You  _do_  look adorable," he hears you pipe up, Frisk twisting on their feet from side to side in pleased embarrassment. The kid has traded their clothing for a green and white striped shirt, and a matching set of shorts, while you've taken their old clothing in hand to be washed.  

"I'll just take these into the kitchen to be washed," you say, already making your way over to the next room. "Would you like anything to drink?" 

Frisk signs a quick answer and just like that he's alone with the kids again. 

The chair closet to Frisk slides across the floor as they pull it back, and they slide Flowey up on the table, Sans giving the pot a further inch of room onto the surface with his magic when Frisk let's go.  

When Frisk is situated where they want to sit, they fix Sans with that  _damn smile_  again, and he pointedly looks away. 

"don’t say a damn word." 

From within their Soul, Frisk giggles.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic will never contain detailed smut, btw. detailed soul stuff, yeah, but i wanna be as vague as i can about pol's gender. if i do decide that their relationship will involve sex, it's gonna be fun i think, writing around that


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chap was supposed to contain snas' and pol's date, but the part after it didn't give off the same vibes, so i decided to post it by itself. i hope you guys like it~! 
> 
> this chap was inspired by the song, "Dreams", by 14?

AD's head lifts immediately from his paws when the alarm goes off, and you shift under your bed's blankets, only the top of your head showing. The growl you emit is all he needs by way of a sign to lunge across the bed, towards the bedside table, and knocking the alarm clock clean off, it's plug severed from the wall in the process.  

Turning over in your bed until you're on your back, you toss the blanket back, and yawn, running over your scalp. Aching from some still much needed sleep, you roll over until you're facing the table, and grab your phone, glancing at the monster dog on the floor. Soft clacks mumer from his direction as he attempts to chew on your clock, but you make no effort to do anything about it, the hour too obscene to warrant leaving bed for any reason outside of approaching death.  

You cuddle into your blanket, using one hand to turn your phone to wake up your phone until your lock screen appears with its simple, white lock screen, while your other hand remains fisted into the comforter. 

(Slick) 5:12 am   
Guten Morgen, Sans! 

 

The water from the nearby river sloshes against the banks of the docks noisily, gulls crying as the hover over head against a gray background of sky. Sans takes in his surroundings with hooded eyes, the nearest warehouse with it's large doors left gaping as maybe a handful of other workers meander around. A series of beeps sound off, a forklift carrying a crate across road asphalt nearby.  

He's more than used to the cold after living in Snowdin, but something about the lateness of the season combined with the nearby water source has some effect on him, the wind sweeping over the tides bringing a chill that threatens to seep into his bones.  

Cause of it he's taken to wearing a zipped coat, longer shorts, and even a scarf and beanie combo to work. The scarf mostly covers his mouth, but a puff of air escapes his nose every time he breathes.  

Breathing was more of a show for the humans in the beginning. Something about looking like a walking corpse or whatever unsettled them from the get go, but slap on some extra layers and a fake respiratory cycle and things smooth out abit.  

At this point it's just habit for him, a tic, but watchin' his breath fog in the air is almost amusing given how damned tired he feels right now. 

Still, the cold it's damn nostalgic. Hell only knows how much that's gonna get when snow actually falls, but sometimes it's not too bad being reminded of where he came from. Sure, being stuck underground sucked, the understatement of the year, but it was his home, and Snowdin was where he lived. 

With the cold pressing against his bones, it's almost nice in an odd way. 

A familiar ping from his coat pulls his hand from it's pocket, Sans' raising a brow bone at the message from you he's just received. Five twelve in the morning? Didn't you not have to be up for work for a few more hours? And who manages to sound so damn cheerful at this hour? He grumbles as much in his head but that doesn't stop his Soul from waking up in his chest, fluttering with equal parts surprise and excitement. 

He doesn't let it show on his face or through his reply, though.  

(Big Guy) 5:23 am   
mornin what u doin up

 

You open your eyes once more, and a smile graces your expression when you see his reply. AD snorts from the floor and stands up, jumping back into the bed where he lays across your legs after you stretch them out again under the blankets, returning to your previous position on your back. Movement will only help you stay awake, after all, and the feel of the cold under the covers brushing against your skin feels nice despite how temporary it is. 

(Slick) 5:24 am   
Sending my favorite skeleton a good morning greeting. :) 

 

A plume of air escapes his nose when he reads your text, his magic thickening in his cheeks involuntarily when his Soul hums in contentment at that word,  _favorite_. Sure he's one of only two skeleton monsters in your life, but seriously 1) Paps is normally more popular, anyways, 2) to be anyone's favorite anything required some amount of fondness, and 3) you woke up just to tell  _him_  good morning. 

A quick blink and he could be next to you in less than a second, but he has enough self restraint not to be some kind of weirdo. But Sans can't think of any kind of reply to that text short of  _youre_ _perfection incarnate and id pay you my life savings to sleep under your bed if_ _that_ _s_ _cool_ _._  

Deciding that's probably the worst thing he could respond with imaginable, he hurries out a reply without thinking about it. And cringes as soon as he sees what he's sent. 

(Big Guy) 5:30 am  
u know some people might find this creepy. n whats with the face? 

 

A laugh escapes your mouth that causes AD's ears to twitch, one red eye opening to lock onto your until you reach over to tangle your fingers in his fur.  

Sans has a point, it's certainly unorthodox for you to wake up just for this reason, and you  _loathe_  waking up early. But with what you have to look forward to today, you wanted Sans to know that you're thinking about him, and that you're excited about what's to come.  

You could very well tell him this through your text, something along the lines of  _I'm so_ _incredibly_ _grateful for your good will towards_ _my_ _self_ _, and the news that we'll be visiting a place that represents a part of your life makes me feel welcome in a way I haven't in some time._  

But you promised him that you would show some restraint--your smile turns self-deprecating—and it's rather sad more than likely that you have, in fact, been without a sense of belonging in years. 

Being apart of someone else's life, of Sans' life, even in such a small way, it's so very grounding. 

(Slick) 5:33 am   
It's a smile, so you know that my words are meant with warmth and good cheer. 

 

Sans tries to roll his eyes at this, but it's pretty lackluster. Nearby, one of the other warehouse loader's waves to him, calling out that the incoming load has arrived. Waving shortly back, Sans says nothing to this, and neither does he hurry to make his way over to the others.  

Warmth and good cheer, eh? That sounds like you. Ever since leaving the mountain he's experienced all of the above world's seasons: winter, spring, summer, now fall.  

The scenery has changed lately, he hasn't in a long while. Same colorful resume, same messy room back at the house, same wardrobe of clothing, cept for the scarf, mittens, and hat Frisk had bought him. Same familiar faces in his life, same blur of nobodies everywhere else.  

Then suddenly into his life walks one, peculiar human, and much like the last time an odd human entered his life, he feels himself changing. If slowly, just a bit. Maybe it'd stop again, leave him at a further loss as to what to do with himself, but there's no telling when that will be, anyways. 

It's pretty cold outside right now, but there's you. Warm, cheerful, you. You, you're bound to leave eventually. Then that'll be it. The end. Go home, folks. 

(Big Guy) 5:38 am   
2 early n 2 cold 4 good cheer 

 

 _He's not much of a morning person, either, is he?_ You think, burrowing yourself back under your blanket, but keeping your phone in your hand for a few minutes longer. It's different, holding onto a phone like this, knowing someone has texted you recently, someone you look forward to talking to without the fear of bringing up old problems.  

Maybe you could make saying good morning a habit? Paired with some good nights, and you can see yourself living a life with... somewhat more of a structure to it.  

You have your schedule, it's true. Most weeks days you head into the office to work on your job as a copy editor: fixing grammatical mistakes and suggesting new methods of wording a certain line or two comes easily given your strict upbringing on wordplay. Then there's your part time job as a dog walker, a not as common one, but one that brings you some joy. There are some television shows you enjoy, but you have no real hobbies, not anymore.  

You have a dream, you have a desire to conquer your fear, but since moving from your parents' house your own life, your own self, has remain so dreadfully static. The world shifts around you, and you remain fixed in place. Never growing, remaining content while not... _living._  

Then the monsters are freed from the underground, and you meet someone that makes connecting with the world again a little more possible.  

Your phone trills, and the sight of that one word on the screen paints your face in a blush of pleasure.  

Who's to say how long this may last, but, in the meantime, you think it will be one of the best you've ever had.

  
(Big Guy) 5:46 am   
thanks 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like in my other story, i just couldn't help pol's last line. still p lame, but i live for cheese like that  
> sending warmth and good cheer to all of you, thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, kay, final post of this chap. much longer than it was, slightly shorter than what it was after that. 
> 
> Inspo: "Through the Rain," by Blazo, and "A Cradle of Myriad Stars" from the Wolf Children Soundtrack.

The lighting is lit low, the atmosphere cloaked in haze of sleepy calm, and his patrons sitting with their shoulders slumped softly. There's a gentle hum in the air of general chatter, broken occasionally by a guffaw at someone's comment, and maybe a word or two raises in argument against someone else, but if anything it adds to the ambience. The door only opened twenty minutes ago but everyone's already settled in.   

It's night like this, Grillby is actually content with his job.    

That's not the say he would trade it for the world.   

The bartender's sun-spot eyes turn towards his left, not quite  over his shoulder, where he knows a framed picture of his daughter sits titled between the glasses.    

No, not the world.   

But some nights are worse than others, and he can't decide if they're few and farther in between then they were before, in Underground.   

Since leaving that special little seventh circle monster kind has found a different reason to wonder into his bar and start up a commotion. Before, it was due to lack of action, or, worded better, the inability to do anything about their situation at all. The barrier was up, morale was down.   

Now the Surface has opened it's doors, and all their complaining comes from action, that is to say, the actions of others. Humans, with their words. Humans, with their eyes. Humans, with their trembling fists, too scared to strike. Unless you're alone, and small, and you give away that you're more afraid then they are. That you always have been.     

"Heard Sans hasn't been coming in as often," a voice hiccups from the other side of the bar. Grillby's eyes snap to Reisi, her chin planted on the counter like it was carved out of the tree it came from along with it. "What's up with that?"  

Grillby hums deeply, continuing with his work, rubbing away at a high ball to keep his hands busy. "Hardly," he sniffs, lifting up the glass to eye it in a false show of speculation.   

"Missed him here a few times. That's just  _weird_ ," she mumbles, barely lifting her head to drink from her own, until he shoots her a look and she sits up. The last thing he needs is a mess in his otherwise spotless building.  

The thought nearly makes him snap.  _He's shown up for all of his shifts, and comes in_  nightly.   

But that would be a lie, and Reisi would know it. The clan monster almost spent as much time at the bar and away from her warren then Sans did from the remainder of his life, she would notice if he didn't show. But Grillby was there even more often, he ran, lived, and breathed the place, he noticed and he knew.   

Sans had been coming in later, some nights not at all. When he does show up, he's different. Grillby noticed the change right away weeks ago. It was impossible not to, given his position as not only a long lived monster of the Surface, and the Underground, and now, the Surface all over again. As a boss monster, or a child of one, you learn to read tells. Signs of when someone is going to feint, then strike left or right, high or low. When someone is about to skewer you in the spine, or puke all over your newly polished floor tiles. As a warrior you learn body language, as a father, you learn about the heart, and as a bartender, both in between.  

Grillby's most faithful patreon, even more so than his father who would scoff about the menu but order from it all the same, has been changing.   

He's been distracted. When he sits at the bar he doesn't down his drink as quickly as he normally would. His eye sockets will center on a point in space and not give an inch, no matter how rowdy everyone else became. Grillby actually has less of a reason to overstock on condiments then he normally would, and that  _is_  weird.   

It's a human, it must be. This never happened in the world below. If Sans was angrier than normal there he would drown himself in drink, and if it were really bad he would turn to something alcoholic. He would yell, or grumble under his breath. About his brother, about his father, about the king, the guard, anything, and everything, but most often about himself.  

Now he sits quietly, and he thinks.   

Grillby hasn't decided if this is a good sign or not, but he'll not tell Sans either way. Grillby's job is to listen, not to tell. To recommend, not advise.   

Besides. If worse becomes worse, there are ways of dealing with a problem that don't require words. Words just get in the way.  

Oh, what's this?  

The door swings open, set dead center across from the bar, where he can see it clearly. The bar is made that way, so it barely takes a flicker of a glance and he can see everyone. But this person he doesn't know. A human in a old pair of boots, slacks iron pressed, and scarf tucked neatly into a black pea coat. Their hands are tucked away, and the expression they wear is one of pure contentment, cheeks tinted red from the cold and growing colder winds of the outside world. But once they’ve taken in their new surroundings, it shifts dramatically.   

Their mouth blossoms into a smile, eyes clearly shining even from where he's standing, and Grillby is on guard at once. The place isn't busy, but monsters have already shown up and tucked in from their day jobs at the factories, bussing tables, hauling crates, that sort of menial labor.   

Grillby gets the occasional human, someone lost that immediately whips around and leaves upon seeing the crowd. Humans that show up in packs, wearing low cut shorts and shorter shirts, trying to make a statement, to themselves, his guests, their parents---who knows? They stay for as long as they deem necessary, but it's always too long. But sometimes there's a human that wants to be there, one that stares, gawks, tries to take a picture. Grillby has melted more than one camera in his life. The more expensive, the funner it is to watch.   

He can deal with the former. The frats and gangs give rise to anger. But the latter, they're just weird. Someone looking for easy cash. Photos to sell. To the papers, perhaps to someone worse. Fetishists. Creeps. He's rather deal with a cult, than someone with a kink.  

Seeing this human, this is what he's immediately afraid of, and he's ready to walk around the bar, offer them a view—the front sidewalk, up close and personal. But then he sees someone else, looming behind them, and he only gets as far as sliding the highball to it's place on the shelf behind him  

Sans. Sans, who pushes the door open for them over their head, and now he follows, tucking his hands into his pockets as soon as the door closes behind him.   

He's tense. Nervous. But here's the kicker: he's smiling.   

It's small, and just as shaken up as the rest of him, but it's definitely there. There's pride on that skull of his, skirted in red, and only when his human glances back does it change to something that Grillby recognizes more, but still hasn't seen that often: cockiness.   

Grillby's flames flutter at the top of his head. This is going to be interesting.  

The inside of Grillby's is bathed in purple light.  

Contained within the space separating the entrance from the bar is a black tiled floor dotted with several tall tables and the not so tall chairs in their accompaniment. Along the left hand wall is a series of booths, crescent moon shaped, with black bodies. Their their thick, cushioned seats are the same shade of eminence purple that make up the seats of the bar stools, and the lamps that hang shortly from the ceiling around the room. There's a pool table a few feet to your right, sitting before one of the two front facing windows that flank the entrance. On the in, the glass seems faintly foggy around the edges with the cold pressing against the warmth of the interior, but on the out it's impossible to see clearly inside. This simultaneously seems to have the effect of lending privacy to the people inside while keeping them aware of passersby.  

The bar itself sits before a wall of glass shelving, positively filled with alcoholic beverages of all shapes and sizes, save for where the drinking cups are. There, the back wall is a mirror, while the remainder is the same, dark wood that matches the furniture of the room.  

When the pair of you enter, comfort instantly seizes your chilled extremities. It's warm here, in more ways than one, and it's a welcome reprieve after the light, freezing rain of the fall. There are monsters abound in here at nearly every chair, the general warmth of their shared company cooling with your presence. You're very aware of this, and more than a few eyes refuse to hide their attention to your being there, but you don't let it get to you. 

You're encroaching on a place of comfort for them after all, and the general relationship between monsterkind and human is hardly congenial at the moment. Who wants to be spending time at a place where one seeks to be distracted from trouble only for trouble to follow them there?  

Still, no one gets up to say anything, and you keep your countenance friendly, which is not in the least bit difficult given your current mood. This place is simply gorgeous!  

"impressed yet?"  

Hearing Sans speak up from behind you, you turn your head with your smile unflinchingly bright: "It's wonderful," you readily admit, earning a gentle chuckle from the skeleton, the effect of which softens the smirk he's wearing.  

"heh, yeah, thought you'd like it," he says, and his eye lights dance ahead in direction, off towards the boots. "let's grab a seat." 

You take the lead, winding around the nearest tables and unwinding the scarf from your neck as you approach your choice of seating. In short order your damp coat is removed, and you slide into one side of the booth, placing them to your left, Sans sitting across from you.  

Humming in appreciation at the comfort the booth provides, you nearly miss when Sans places his hands on the table, and then removes them, tucking them away once more. His eye lights dance from you, to off to the side, and back again. Is he nervous? Perhaps there's something there's something that happened today to make him so distracted.  

"Thank you for inviting me out to dinner, Sans," you speak up, causing his attention to focus on your person. "It's been some time since I've sat down and had a meal inside walls that were not my own." 

"heh, don't worry about it," he mutters at first, his eyes distracted again, which causes your interest to pique further. What has him so on edge? "gotta pay you back for all the mustard you bought me anyways, 'n i don't like keepin' debts," he says with a toothy smile that makes you laugh. 

"But I've said that I owe you for your own generosity, Sans," you say yourself, still laughing lightly. "At this rate we'll be at this forever." 

Sans shrugs casually, and looks away again, "damn shame." 

"Enslaved to one another's fancy for all eternity," you reply, propping your chin upon one hand while laying your other arm parallel to your person on the table, and staring into his immediate glance in your direction.  

Red really is his color.  

"Sans," a voice hisses to your left, and you blink you both look up in time to notice the presence of someone come to grace your company.  

Warmed in more than one way, indeed.  

You have reason to think that perhaps this person has been described in a myriad of different fashions, all of which fell short of his honest splendor, and you hardly think that you could very well do him any justice yourself. But your very active and easily fascinated imagination cannot help itself the moment he stands next to you. 

Grillby is witch light broken free from their prison, a star having fallen and bargained themselves legs to walk upon the surface of the earth with merely a smile, a Soul exposed to open air and set ablaze--you really could go on.  

With it's two top most buttons left unfettered, his white, pin striped dress shirt hugs their person generously. Paired with black slacks and a shiny pair of pointed, black oxfords, this embodiment of  flame that begins in shades of violet before receding to a lighter amethyst is by far one of the most fascinating people you've ever encountered.  

You look to Sans, ready for direction in where this conversation may lead. 

"Picking up hours," he asks your companion, the light behind his clever smile a glowing white. 

 

"'fraid not tonight, grillbz," Sans quickly replies, snatching his notice from the way his human, the way you brighten up with Grillbz around. It's probably just you being you, but he can't help how he tenses up under his coat, something he knows the other monster is bound to notice. "here for some grub." 

Grillby's glowing eyes transition from Sans to you smoothly as he speaks in an admonishing tone: "Bringing food from elsewhere is against the rules," his smile setting Sans' on an even tighter edge then how they began. "It'll only cause me to doubt my own culinary skills." 

Your smile quirks up, a glimmer flashing in your already shining eyes, and Sans' feels his non-existent stomach sink to his hip bones. 

Shit,  _shit_  he knew this was a bad idea! Grillby's one of the hottest damn attractions in the friggin Underground, and his bar a close second. 'Course you'd be no different-. 

"Is that why Sans' employment involves standing outside a majority of the time," you unexpectedly ask with something akin to revelation on your face, a hand raised to your mouth in surprise. "He is an appetizing sight to behold but I thought he was made bouncer rather than server due to his admirable strength rather than his appearance."  

 

Your response was slick as sin (stare unblinking, lips lilting) and Sans looks positively shell shocked (eye sockets wide, mouth a flat-line). And he's blushing again! All the while you sit there, pretty as a picture! That's all Grillby needs to fall into an outright roar of laughter, his flames snapping atop his scalp and his Soul cackling in his breast.  

This  _is_  interesting. 

"A human hasn't given me cause to laugh like that since I last skewered one on a spike generations ago," Grillby rumbles sincerely, still deeply assessing you for who you are. Humankind has many faces, and a dozen intentions to go along with each one; it would take more than a laugh to fall in his good graces. But it's easy to be a gentleman to the enemy. "Grillby, welcome to my establishment," he states, poffering a hand while his other keeps the menus and Sans' drink tucked under his other arm.  

You continue to impress, making no hesitation in meeting him half-way. "Polaris Ebott, descendent of bastards." 

Grillby's grin sharpens a tad, something he makes no attempt to smother. "And here I thought humans were the monogamous sort."  

"Only to their own interests," you reply as your hands fall away again. 

"Just so," Grillby nods, a hum of consideration in his throat. But he has time to think about this later. Taking the bottle from under his arm, he places the yellow container near the skeleton's reach. Sans' broken line of sight snaps him from the daze he's fallen into while watching your conversation with the bartender, and Grillby recognizes the skepticism in his eye lights. 

"Choice of beverage," he asks you, nodding when you ask for a cola, an item he only recently had the luxury of adding to his list of menu items. Soda was a rare commodity in the Underground, not made in bulk due to its materials being better spent on more important matters. But the Surface just opened up a whole world of new opportunities.  

"Take your time," Grillby offers them each a menu, despite Sans probably having memorized it by now it'll keep his hands busy. "I'll take mine," he walks away on that note, leaving Sans to stew with his new friend.  

So this is what's had Sans up in the air recently.  

The human is a pretty thing, Grillby thinks. Well dressed, well groomed, not the sort he'd see around Sans any day. They're as comfortable as a peach around their hulking companion, so there's definitely a story there. 

 _So what happens when I read between the lines with this one_ , he asks himself, walking back behind the bar to grab your drink from a fridge tucked underneath. 

"Pst, Grillby," Risi whispers pointlessly with her mouth hidden behind an upturned hand. Kind of pointless, given that Sans and Ebott are on the left side of the room, not the right. Glass bottle and opener in hand, he lifts an eyebrow genrously in her direction.  

"Whossat? That that human everyone's been talking about," her mismatched eyes dance back, rather obviously at that, to the odd pair across the room, before centering back on the bartender.  

Grillby shrugs nmoncommitedly, but he knows what Risi means. He knows things, and what he knows is that some human, as humans do, had been making a fuss in the immediate monster realm. 'Course it wasn't long after reentering the world of the above did they find out that the Ebotts, the very family that gave the mountain it’s name and then dropped it on them, are still alive. Not very much so, their numbers have dwindled down, down to a select handful, one of which has walked into this bar this very night. The very one the leader of the Royal Guard had made it known was "shoving their way into monster business". 

The Ebotts have grown small, but not weak. They have their reach over society that may not be exactly the same as it once was, but still holds some significance. In only a few weeks, the local line had business with meeting with King Asgore, but it wasn't due to be of the personal sort that you seemed to have in mind.  

And it’s  _Sans_  that you've roped yourself into getting to know, out of all the monsters you could have encountered. It reminds Grillby of the ambassador, the very one that also became a close friend to Sans. Sans and everyone else, but even so.  

Grillby takes the time to deliver to you your drink, your smile welcome, and unguarded for his approach, a thank you already on your tongue when he's popped the cap and handed it over. He merely nods, and then parts once more, giving the pair of you more time to consider your meal. 

Will your presence be as pivotal as Frisks, or your ancestors before them? 

 

The menu holds a simple assortment of foods, with a list of burgers, fries, and salads making up a fourth of its contents. You hum in question at the sight of such a short selection, briefly reminded of a restaurant your parents had taken you to once where on the adult menus only two items were presented. When your dad had been given his plate, there had been a perfectly shaped, circular cut of steak, covered in a thin sauce. Your dad had grumbled about it barely being a mouthful of food, while you marveled at the thought of seeing a cow that small. 

What truly made up the bulk of the selection were the drinks: there are dozens of them! And some with the most interesting names!  

"These sound so unique! "The My Faire Lady". "The Soul Splinter"," you exclaim, reading them over, but your companion says nothing. "Did Grillby come up with these or are they in human bars also?" 

Lifting your eyes up from the elegantly designed menu, you steal a glance at Sans-and immediately notice his troubled expression. His eyes are locked on you but his eye lights are small, the sharp line of his mouth is set into a dazed frown. 

Lips turning down, you finally realize your mistake. "Sans," his eyes finally widen a fraction, catching on to the low tone of your voice. "I went too far again, didn't I?" 

Sans expression changes, the skeleton shrugging with a roll of his large shoulders, "heh, don't know what your talkin about slick," he says, waving a hand, "stuff like that just rolls off my back." 

You shake your head, guilty still about your words, even if Sans is trying to be causal. "You don't have to shrug it off for my sake, Sans. I promised I would try, and I will," you nod your head firmly, but don't break eye contact with him. "It is that Grillby's comment had suggestive connotations and I wanted it to be known that I am here for only one person," you finish with sincerity, and a slight smile.  

Sans' cheekbones are graced with a gentle dusting of red at this, a sight that seems to occur so often that it sends your mind spinning. Was it truly so rare that he received compliments? 

"aint no worry about it," he's saying, draping one arm across the booth behind him and picking up his bottle of uncapped mustard with his other hand. "sides, i already told you the facts. this is just another step in my plan to make things a little more physical between the two of us in the future, ya dig?"  

Sans gives a pull of his drink, and a smile is already bursting across your face at the implication you think is there: "Does that mean after this date we can progress from hand holding to cuddling?" 

It's a fascinating sight seeing a skeleton sputter out a burst of mustard, one that causes your smile to drop to a gentle O of surprise, and there's a sigh near your shoulder when Grillby arrives just in time to see the mess on his friend's face. 

"Manners, Sans," Grillby tuts, shaking his head and Sans wipes his teeth off with his coat sleeve. "What have I told you about keeping fluids inside your body?"  

Sans' eyes are narrowed on your host. "dunno grillbz, but i think if i try hard enough even a fire guy like you could bleed," he hisses, leaning towards the other monster with both hands gripping the table. 

Grillby seems unconcerned by Sans' threat. "You do know the surest way of getting rid of a skeleton is to burn it through, don't you?" 

You can't help but laugh at the exchange, bringing your hands together and earning the attention of the both of them at once. "You two seem like such good friends!" They are so unguarded with one another! It really is a sight to behold, a pair that doesn't mince words in each other's presence.  

Sans huffs out a laugh of his own, settling back in his seat . "heh, grillbz 'n i have known each other for years." 

"Too many years," Grillby gives another sigh, his elegantly curved mouth dropping into a frown. "Your tab has grown abysmal." 

Sans perks up, "no limits then," his grin is positively Cheshire. "thats awfully nice of you grillbz. a true pal," he nods with certainty at this, while Grillby only scowls. 

"You're both so honest with one another," you comment, sharing your inner thoughts on the exchange with a hum. "It is remarkable, a relationship de-void of falsities." 

" _HA!"_ Sans bursts out, slapping a hand on the table between you and sending a trill of warm success through your chest.  

Grillby whips his head between the two of you dangerously, "I've changed my mind, get out, the both of you." 

"c-c'mon grillbz," Sans tries, wiping away an imaginary tear. "this aint gonna end anytime soon," his eye lights dart to you, and his grin widens as new when you delight at the pun he's made. Maybe they aren't so bad after all, when shared with a friend. 

" _Sans_ ," Grillby snaps, his flaming mane flaring up before abruptly dying down when he remembers himself. 

Shoulders slacking, Grillby mutters out a sigh. "What do you want?" 

"ill take a burg with fries, the usual," Sans says, clearly still amused. Grillby ignores him, turning his sharp chin towards your person. 

"Ebott?" 

"The same, with lettuce and tomato, please," you reply, enjoying Sans' good mood with a glance to his sharp smirk. 

"I'll make it a lover's combo." 

It disappears in a flash, "hey-!" 

But Grillby ignores him, taking up the menus as you give your host a warm thank you, and he departs without nary a second glance in Sans grumbling direction. 

With the bartender away again you take a moment to examine your companion. He looks unhappy with the teasing, but you think you can tell that he looks genuinely relaxed. The atmosphere is comfortable, the conversations a rumbling sigh in the air, with an occasional upturned shout or a clack of billiard balls to puncture the mood, but not destroy it. Was this exactly how it felt, Underground? Combined with the fog of cold that collects along the front windows, maybe you could imagine just for an instant that you're beneath the earth, instead of on it. 

"So, this was your favorite place in the Underground to frequent?" 

Sans jerks a nod, "yeah. good food, close to home...." He trails off, making you wonder what he's thinking. "plus grillbz puts up with my shit," another huff of laughter, but his smile seems less deprecating then complacent.  

You echo the sound, leaning into in your own seat and enjoying the pressure of the soft leather against your back, "Papyrus mentioned that he didn't care for the location himself." Papyrus had not failed to share him animosity towards the restaurant and it's apparently "ABSOLUTELY HORRID" menu selection. 

Sans' eye lights flicker, his expression momentarily flickering to surprise, before it changes back again. "uh, nah," he shakes his skull. "cant stand the grease or the company, he says. his loss," he shrugs once more, less amiable then previously, but you're learning that on the subject of Papyrus, Sans is prone to falling into gloom, with sparks of sunlight here and there if the right memory strikes him.  

There was a warm, and loving relationship there once. Perhaps there still is, and you think that the brothers truly do care for one another, but you're hardly one to judge other people's familial bonds. You are curious as to what happened.  

 _The Underground was such an unforgiving place._ But Frisk survived, and that means something. 

From across the room Grillby sweeps a path over to one of the tables, refilling glance with ease, his mouth turned up in a show of rakishness that makes a pink feathered and billed face monster swoon in their seat. 

"Grillby seems quiet charming," you remark, admiring his charisma from afar, and Sans' catches your line of sight. 

"eh, guys been around lot longer then i have. used to work for the royals back 'fore the wall was up," Sans says, raising your curiosity even further. Grillby is that old then? Previous to monsters being freed you could only ever discover such longevity in a sentient creature in story books! Monsterkind continues to impress, it's a wonder that humanity had ever managed to drive them into the dark. But you can also see how someone would pick up such wily ways by working with nobility. "its easier to fuck someone over when they dont see it coming he says." 

"In so many words," you ask with a laugh.  

Sans blinks dramatically, pretending to play coy and prompting another giggles from you in turn, "throw in a couple of bedroom eyes and barely hidden threats and pretty much," he finishes with exasperation, but soaks up your response. 

"I think he may get along with my grandmother, she's no different," you say, then straighten your spine, inserting a dry falsetto into your voice with a slow blink of your eyes. ""Kill them with cunning"."  

Sans snickers through his teeth at your impression, melting your stern frown back into an easily shown grin. "dont get along with your family much, do ya," he asks, eye lights bright. 

"My parents and I were close prior the kidnapping, but since then they've given my space," you admit, sad that this causes his enjoyment to falter. "They are kind people," you try to reassure him. "But our,  _their_  society is not one that encourages kindness. My grandmother is one of whom makes manipulation an art."  _And_ _father was raised under her, made calm, stoic, shaped the_ _embodiment_ _of poise and refinement. Until he met dad._  

Sans chuckles mirthlessly, "you ebotts would fit in just nice down there wouldn't you." It's not a question, and it need not be. You know this with certainty. "not that you're so bad yourself, slick. but i saw the way you talked to that guy when we met. i think you know what you need to say to get what you want." There's a bit of a challenge in this as he says it, propping his chin in his hand and leaning onto the table with one elbow 

"Perhaps," you reply, locking eyes with him. "But some people deserve more than pretty words." 

 

Whatever you're hinting at, the softening of the skin around your eyes takes Sans off guard, pushing his attempt at being more assertive into the dirt. He just can't catch a break! Every time he tries to figure out some way of getting the drop on you, you pull something like that out of your hat! He doesn't think you're even aware of it, how you can try and reign in your frankly mind boggling flattery but still manage to slip it into every other word you say.  

Sans has dealt with liars before. Hell, he's definitely one himself, and being a liar meant being able to catch others in act. You though, you're either really damn good at this persuasion crap, or you ain't lying. 

Guess which freaks him out more? 

Grillby shows up just in time, using on hand to slide two plates onto the table, and then placing a basket of fries between the two of you. "Enjoy." 

Maybe he should just... chill for a second. Just a second, for however this night goes. Maybe...this is real? Maybe youre as real as they come, as real as he hopes you to be. He's at Grillby's, afterall. The place he specifically goes to relax. And if it doesn't work out, if you think he's some kind of freak-. 

Sans winces at the pang in his chest, and grabs his bottle a little harder then probably necessary, squeezing out a generous helping. Grillby raises a white eyebrow, and Sans questions it until he notices that he's stuck it on his plate next to his burger, not on the fries.  

Right, you don't like mustard.  

Sending Grillbz a warning glance, the fire elemental just shrugs, and walks off. But Sans already knows he's not going to let this go.  

" _Ahhh_ , this tastes delicious," you practically coo, and Sans sees that you've already broken into your meal, your burger in both hands and a look of absolute satisfaction on your face. Sans doesn't think he's seen so much positivity in his life since he met Frisk, but damn you're  _definitely_  broken the record since then. 

"you're a pretty bubbly person you know that," he blurts out, but you don't look offended. If it weren't for your first encounter he wouldn't think that would be  _possible._   

"I get it from my parents I'm afraid," you say self critically with an apologetic smile.  

 _s_ _hit, slick you don't need to apologize for nothing-,_ he stops that thought in it's tracks, swallowing down the urge to reassure you out loud. Weird how he can be paranoid as hell one second and willing to jump into fire for you the freaking next,  _ugh._   

"My dad, easily excitable. My father, things slide off him like oil on water," you go on, placing your food back down while he slathers the inside of his with his drink. Gotta keep his hands busy, hell if he knows what to do with them otherwise. 

"cept with what happened, anyone else would have trouble getting out of bed every day," he remarks, sucking off a glob of yellow from his finger when he spots it and becoming self-conscious immediately after, pointless wiping off his already clean finger bone on his shirt. 

"In the Underground, you lost all hope," you comment, sounding a bit distracted with the idea. 

"millennia stuck under a rock will do that to ya." 

"Despite that you came to the surface with the intention to live, not to seek revenge," you say, and he stiffens, catching onto the awe in your voice. Your eyes are all shiny and your lips are turning up and he's narrowing in on them like they're a lifeline.  "I think that's the ultimate form of "getting even", continuing on, thriving, when your abusers would want anything but. I'm trying, but I won't have them catch me without a smile."  

Sans eyes flit away but he already thinks he's been staring for too long. There's sweat threatening to bead up on his skull and he doesn't want you to see it but fuck. 

 _Fuck_ _,_  how'd he get this lucky? How'd he end up catching the eye of someone like you, someone so bright and strong. Shit, he's going to fuck this up, he _knows_  it. 

"why couldn't little Suzy play on the swing?" 

Joke, yeah. Jokes are easy. Just make a freaking joke. 

"Why?" 

"because she didn't have any arms!" 

ABORT. What kind of shit is that, you aren't gonna laugh at  _that,_ what kind of pretty,well-mannered- 

Your abrupt peal of laughter freezes Sans in his seat, the oversized skeleton feeling his eyes turn into pin pricks in his skull. 

 _shit, you serious?_  

"knock, knock." 

" _Who_ -who's there." 

"not little Suzy." 

You laugh even louder than last time, one hand flying up to smother your mouth and the resulting giggle fit but Sans has already got an eyeful of your grin and he can't help the one that’s take over his face. A good looking human that  _wants_  to spend time with him, and  _likes_  his jokes? Yeah, he can't help himself now. 

"wow, slick, didn't take you for the dark humor type," he drawls, but you just shake your head, wiping away a tear from your still red cheeks. 

"I've already witnessed something dark myself, Sans," you state for a matter of fact, the traces amount of humor conflicting with the content of what you've said, and your smile gentles. "Something like that affects people differently. That I have a terrible sense of humor is a blessing." 

"oh, uh, sorry slick," he looks away from you, more than a little awkward now, but takes your light mood as a good sign. Maybe he hasn't totally screwed this up just yet.  

"No, I'm sorry if you feel on the spot, but I would rather not dance around the subject," you say, and he returns his eyes to you in time to see the lift and fall in your shoulders, as well as the face that comes with it: complete neutrality. "It's simply another part of who I am." 

It's like in your dining room, when you laid your situation out on the table for him to get an eyeful of. Shit happened, you're living with it, and whenever you talk about it it's like you're talking about something a helluva lot more uncomplicated: like engine repair or brain surgery. It is what it is.  

Sans doesn't know if this is the right way of dealing with it, but hell if he doesn't toss jokes at his own problems and keep to himself. He doesn't know how to talk to someone about this stuff because he's never done it himself with anyone. Papyrus doesn't know about the resets, about Frisk, about any of it. He doesn't know how Sans feels about him neither, but that was a whole 'nother can of worms Sans doesn't feel like prying open right now.  

So he does what he does when he visits Grillby's: he tries to think about any of it, and he focuses on something else instead. This time it's you, and man does he have a whole arsenal of sick, twisted stuff to unleash next.  

"wheres the one place where "im sorry" and "i apologize" doesnt mean the same thing," he asks, reaching for a couple of fries while watching your eyes instantly round in interest: "Where?" 

"a funeral." 

" _Oh my god,"_ you exclaim, absolutely scandalized until you can't keep it up, and begin to laugh. 

 

It's cold out, he can tell. A freezing drizzle had walked with them all the way to the bar and back to your place, a hint of your breath ghosting the air along the way. Soon enough it'll be snowing, and the tips of your ears are still red from exposure as the two of you walk inside. 

Humans are deceptively fragile. They've gotta deal with things like biological sickness, short life spans, wiping each other off the side of the planet for some reason or another. But you were the perfect picture of peaceful.   

 _"I want to show you something."_  

Sans is a nervous wreck.  

The thing with Grillbys, hanging out there and just talking, it was nice. Too nice. It's not what he expected to say the least. You'd stuck around, laughing at his jokes, loving the food, and even talking up his closest friend like you were already making plans. It was like an actual freaking date.   

Now the two of you are heading to your place and what the hell has he gotten himself into-?   

 _"Does that mean after this date we can progress from hand holding to cuddling?"_  

What if you actually expected that? Wasn't that what people did after a date? Didn't they hang out, have drinks, get all close-  

There's a click as the light in the living room is turned on, and Sans attention shoots to the couch immediately, and back again as he sees you unwinding your scarf from your neck. 

Sans instantly imagines you pulling him onto your couch, holding his hand, no, not just that! But actually wrapping your arms around his shoulders, not letting go, burying your face into his chest-  

But you bypass the couch, and the central room altogether, walking into the hall with him following after in silent question. 

He says nothing as you lead the way to a door that's typically closed in the hall, one Sans had written off as belonging to a closet or something, until you open it up. Another light shines, and once you walk through, he peers in after.  

Bookshelves, a desk, and a piano by a window on the opposite wall. Hadn't you said something about learning how to play?  

More than that, they'd been your instructor. That girl, that one in the picture frame on your dresser. 

 With little ceremony, you slide in front of and sit on the piano bench, patting the surface of its left side, and Sans raises his brow bones.  

The seat barely creaks under his weight, but he has to sit close to fit. You don't comment on his close proximity, instead pushing back the lip of wood that guards the keys until their revealed in one neat, long row. 

"You showed me your favorite place in the Underground," you explain, breaking the quiet and looking up to him. "This was once mine, I wanted to share it with you."  

Sans blinks, glancing at the instrument, but keeping his hands in his lap. There's a part of him that instantly jerks to life, wanting to touch it, try out a few notes, see what happens. But something obvious stops him from budging an inch, and his hands remain on his legs. "...this the one you guys used to play?"  

You shake your head, returning your attention to the keys again. "No, she never came here. This one I played with my parents, but mostly by myself," you reach forward, brushing a key, a note of sound thumbing the air. "I would come here when I felt lonely, or angry. Bored, or sad. Sometimes the door would be left open and music would fill the whole house," you close your eyes, breathe in and out slowly, and Sans misses your earlier bout of delighted joy from his jokes. "I always felt better by the end."  

Sans doesn't know what to say. But he gets that this is a serious moment, this means something to you, and he can feel his magic jittering beneath his bones. His nerves are starting to get to him again, the impending worry about ruining this once again rising up in his head. If he were anyone else, he'd know what to say. Frisk, sure as hell would know what to do.   

But he gets this, he knows what you mean, but...doesn't, at the same time. Grillby's was a great numbing tool, a distraction, but he sure as hell didn't always walk away feeling good about himself. He didn’t, doesn't, have anything like this piano, the very first of it's kind he's ever sat in front of.  

Instruments rarely survive the trip to the Underground, much less something as big as this. He had his trombone, but it was definitely scuffed up in places, and he would hardly call himself a musician.   

But it's not that it's a piano that gets to him, it's what it means that he doesn't know what to do with.   

Something you always get to see, to walk away from, and smile about because of? Yeah, foreign concept. 

An image of his brother comes to mind, tiny, stubborn, take-on-the-world-or-die-trying, baby bones Paps, and he shakes his head. It's been a long, long time since then.  

"Play a song with me," you suddenly turn your head in his direction, smile as bright as your eyes, as if this was the best damn idea you've ever had.   

"w-what? hell no," your smile drops, and he scrambles to make an excuse, waving his hands between the two of you.  "look slick, i aint the musical type."  

"That's just it, Sans," you begin, smile returning, albeit not as big as previously, and he's guilty about that. "Everyone's the musical type. From the way you breathe, to the way you speak, and move."  

"heh," he shakes his head, still really, really reluctant, and wiggles his finger bones at you. "even with these claws?"  

A breath escapes you nose, a trace of amusement there, and you lift your hands, palms up. You don't move, but it takes Sans a second to see what you're getting at. Eyeing you closely, he places the backs of his hands on yours, unsurprised when you grip them lightly in your own, a little more when you bring them close under your face, examining them closely. He's a little self conscious, and can't help the twitch they both make, and when you close your eyes, bending into them until your lips almost touch the point where his two hands meet, a rush of magic floods his face.  

"Especially these."  

It's all he sees. Your skin close to his hands, hands he's seen beaten up, bones broken, dusting around the edges until there's nothing left. Hands shaking, tired, red, so fucking red. Monsters don't have organs, but he's sure as hell familiar with them. He's read about them, but he's seen them, too. Blood and visceral staining his shoes, his clothing, those damn hands. And you're so close to them, so damn unaware of where the hell they’ve been-.   

When he yanks them out of your grip, your eyes fly open, confusion there as quickly as the anger fills his system, "the hell do you know?"  

"Sans-?"  

But he just keeps going, he doesn't know if he can stop once it starts, and the look on your face just makes him angrier. Not because of you, but because he's the one causing it, "ive seen stuff, ive done fucked up shit! you think im just some big soft, fantastic guy—do you even see me? im a big, hulking monster, pol. you don't know anything!"  

There's a stretch of unblinking silence, and he can’t begin to guess what you're thinking until you say it.  

"No, I don't," you reply, voice perfectly calm, a stark contrast to his own. His teeth are gritted tight, his eyes flickering over your face, looking for some trace of fear, of reluctance, of regret.   

But he doesn't see any of that, and you aren't looking away from him.   

"But I want to," you go on, echoing your words from earlier, and you look unhappy. Not him, but with yourself. "I don't know anything, but I think Frisk does," you catch him off guard with this, not at all expecting the kid to come up at all. "They say monsters are terrible people, but Frisk walked through the entirety of the Underground. They know you Sans, they learned about all of you, and yet still they brought down the barrier. Whatever it is you did, whatever you think about yourself," he's not uttering a sound at this point, he doesn’t even think to try to interrupt you, to deny everything you're saying. "I think if they can still love you despite it, no, for it..." You're close, so close, and he doesn't know if it's because he's gotten himself closer, or if it's all you. "Then I can love you, too."  

Sans' Soul shudders at the same time he does, the skeleton letting out a rattling sigh through his teeth. He doesn't let himself relax, a part of him, a big part of him, waiting for the punchline. But you never say it, and when you smile again, he sinks into himself. Into the seat, into the moment, just you and him and his Soul quaking in his chest.   

Love. Love. You couldn’t mean it like that. But his movements are light, the monster turning back the piano, seeking some refuge away from your attention a thousand humming insects seem to exist within his magic all at one time.  

"...okay."    
Your fingers flit over the keys, testing themselves but not pressing down, and when your shoulders presses into his arm, this seat is too damn small for the two of you, he's very aware of that happening. Everything else is just a haze.  

"Would you like to try?"  

Sans doesn't respond right away. Something about you saying that...makes him pause. Consider his options, consider you, sitting there, so close that the two of you are touching, and waiting for him to respond. It only lasts a few seconds, that pause, but it's all he needs.    
 

"...yeah." 

 

"Could I message you goodnight, Sans," you ask into the neck of his sweater, and a rumble travels from his chest to yours, making you grin into the fabric. 

"coming on a bit strong, ain't yah, slick?" 

The pair of you are in your living room, behind the couch, and you've managed to win a hug out of your favorite person in the world right now. He had been reluctant at first, arguing lightly with a smirk shaping his teeth, but that hasn't stopped him from leaning down to you the moment you lifted your arms.  

"Perhaps I should try harder then," you dare, relieved when his laugh comes a little louder this time: "sure." 

You don't think you will ever tire of this. 

"Can I see you again soon?" 

"clingy, much?" 

"Very much so!" 

An actual guffaw this time, mostly due to surprise, but still!  

"…real soon," he mummers, his hold on you tightening, just enough that it's noticeable, and you're so, so grateful for it. 

 

When the void falls away and his bedroom walls rise up, it takes Sans a couple of beats longer than normal to take stock of the situation. The distant hum of traffic and wheezing of nighttime insects adding to the haze in his skull. 

Then the scene focuses, he processes where he is and what just happened.  

There's his typical messy bed. Papyrus magic is in the air, telling him that his little brother is already in bed in the next room. His footing is uneven, a scattering of clothing under his shoes pressing into their soles.  

Sans lets out a laugh through his nose. He's only just left you, and he thinks that maybe since the day began, he actually feels better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pol suddenly perks up from beside Sans on the bench, the eagerness on their face brightening their eyes and sending his Soul cartwheeling into oblivion.  
> "Sans! Do you know what type of piano has the best sense of humor," they ask, but don't give him enough time to think it through, as if that were possible. Placing their fists on their hips, they exclaim, "A YamaHA-HA-HA!"  
> "you wanna get married maybe?"  
> "Ha-what?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so, so sorry for this late update. i've been wanting to write for days now but some really big stuff has happened in my personal life recently. when this month is up, i'll be jotting down a storm, but until then utm will be updated more frequently than tsb since it's so chill in comparison  
> also this chap totes did not go where i was expecting it to

Your day opens formally at the office, sitting in a private cubicle on the main floor of Otter Books' hub in Ebott. It's a neat, spacious environment, the floor length windows on the far North and Eastern walls providing ample light, and every white desk kept spotless from dust. It's mostly quiet, a pattern of gentle conversation, the tapping of keystrokes, and the sliding of pen or pencil across paper lulling you into the early eve of noon gently.  

Sitting behind your desk with a pen tucked behind your ear, wearing trimmed slacks, loafers, and a shirt with ¾ sleeves, casual yet professional, you can't help but be thankful for the job you've been given. The closest people are Ashe to your left, an absent Marco at your front, and Rett's desk wedged between them, but each have their own space.  

Small blessings, but you still feel guilty that this one of the primary reasons why you had chosen the location... and the profession.  

 _No handing over coffee, no making orders, no team building_ _ex_ _ercises_ _requiring hugs._ The last thought makes you frown minutely, one that springs into life at the thought of a certain someone.  _Maybe I should ask Sans if he's ever had to do such a thing?_ Given his long employment history, it is possible! 

You're already reaching for you phone where it lays next to the slim keyboard of your computer, when you hesitate. Shaking your head, you return your eyes to your monitor. 

It's been several days since you've last seen your companion in person. Not that is to say that your relationship is suffering! The last night you spent with him before your piano in your home, it had been life defining. You never want to shake the image in your head of Sans' hands tracing after yours as you taught him  _Rain, Rain, Go Away_. At one point you had each taken a part of the song, his to your left resembling that of the drumming of impatient fingers, while yours was meothidal, less repetitive, but just as simple.  

Despite that simplicity, your blood had thrummed with excitement, a smile a light on your face, and Sans red flickers of magic soaking everything in with ease.  _He's a very fast learner_. He mastered the song in two rotations, and the next,  _You Are My Sunshine_ , just as quickly.  

You'd been fascinated with the interest that took over him while he was learning, Sans more focused an unflinching then you've ever seen him. It'd been next to impossible to stop!  

Now, here you are at work, with not a glimpse of him since, and all because of  _his_  work.  

No, that isn't true, there's a larger power at work here. One that's filling Grillby's full with patrons and even slamming Sans' duties at his warehouse location. That's not even mentioning his influx of customers at his stand: the city is fit to bursting with people this week! 

If there's anyone's work that is not being pushed around it's your own, but that's what you preferred. You didn't want to think of what it would be like if you were both equally busy.  

There's always the option of texting him, if calling is off the table... but no, you don't want to bother Sans with your inquiries when he's being worked ragged.  

"Polaris?" 

Humming under your breath, you look out from your thoughts and up to your co-worker, Marco, who stands beside the meeting lines of your two desks.  

Buzz-cut, sweater vested, and sporting a pair of eyeglasses on his button nose, Marco greeted you warmly and openly on your very first day at the office, one of very few outside of your boss. He had heard the news of course, yet being not only an out of towner but from out of the country, the born Chadian had quickly built up a work relationship with yourself that you can only thank your lucky stars for.  

 _"It isn't where you came from, but who_ _you want to become for the sake of what_ _you left behind."_  

In front of you now, your smile is less polite than a moment ago and more friendly, but you notice the sheaf of papers in his hand as your friend leans into your cubicle. A manuscript.  

"It's been all around the office, into every hand," he explains, poffuring the work to you. You take it, thankful for the distance he keeps between the two of you even in that small exchange, and glance over the cover page. "Some of us are already swamped. I have my eyes set on Honolulu tomorrow. Others are sour grapes like Rett," he doesn't even to bother his pointed look towards the desk diagonal of yours, and your shared co-worker screws his mouth up from under his topiary-esque, red beard.  

You are not friends with Rett. 

"No one will take it," Marco glances back to you, and you read to see why rather than ask out loud.  

 _In the Spotlight,_ written by Mettaton. A surname, but no family. Still, it's one you recognize from both news reports and popular media outlets.  

The Monster actor, spokesperson, and all-around star, Mettaton took the internet by storm with his people in a rush of fervor, but it's never died down. The shiny chromed wonder constantly appears to be releasing more work, that he doesn't seem to have anything Hollywood yet though is dazzling by it's own rights.  

Even if differences in species gave them pause, wasn't it those same differences that they would want to exploit at every turn? 

"The bill refused to force the script to stop at the door." 

"But people refuse to let it go any further," Marco nods. "This isn't the only house it was sent to, but this is as far as it's gotten." 

"I'll take it," you say immediately, but then shake your head just as he's smiling, although that hardly stops him. "I'm only a copyeditor, this will be first time covering a work from the beginning-." 

"And carrying it through to the end," Marco goes on, his confidence in your abilities out shining your momentary blimp of doubt, but such a thing is hardly enough to lead you to consider refusing it. It's the curious lilting of his mouth that makes you pause. "But you out of everyone seem more willing to give them a chance then most." 

 _He knows about Sans._ And if Marco knows... you glance openly around the office. Sure enough, more than one pair of eyes drops back down to their work, a conversation begins again with more gusto, someone chokes on their water near the cooler at having been caught.  

"Someone saw the two of you walking over on fifth the other day," Marco explains, unashamed. "Rather big boned, wouldn't you say? Ah, I see that smile!" He laughs, and you have the sudden urge to swat at him, but catch yourself with the reminder of what you're holding. "Are you two close?" 

Close? 

Holding hands in your living room, closing your arms around his neck as you last said goodbye, Sans' voice near your ear a rich rumble of warmth.  

The flinch of fear and then anger in his eyes when you sat on the piano bench. The ease in which he fell into fighting Undyne, a smile curling on his skull... 

"I know that face," Marco's voice interrupts the image, which flickers away, back to the recesses of your mind. His brightness has dimmed a touch, a memory in his eyes as his focus remains in the present. "If there's anyone who can do this, I think it is you." Surprise comes momentarily, followed by a feeling of gratitude, and Marco nods at your expression, understanding.  

"Overtime," he slaps the short wall of your cubicle next to him and starts to stride off without turning, raising his fits in a cheer. "Shoot on!" 

Smiling at his encouragement, you glimpse back down at bundle in your hands. It's thick, very thick, and you'll be doing everything. Less roadblocks.  

 _No one can stop me,_ you think, leaning back in your chair and looking forward to the work ahead of you. . _..was that a pun? Sans..._ You roll your eyes, and force yourself back into working, the genuine happiness under your skin not fading. 

 

Your mind is a whirl with information by the time you're off work and taking the walk home. You've never watched one of Mettaton's videos before, but the monster's personality is  _impress_ _ive_. Even in written form it felt as though they were in the office with you, doling out every line with a grand exuberance rivalring that of a wideway veteran. They were simply born to be an actor, and for more reasons than one, as their manuscript pulled you deeper and deeper to their fascinating history.  

You intend on asking them about it in person, and you're definitely looking forward to this project even more than Marco first handed it over, but you're exhausted.  _It's not only my 9 to 5, too. Their extroverted_ _personality just demands so much attention_ _!_  

Sighing into the air, you're already looking forward to lying on your couch while eating something warm, just for a short while until to tackle the story tucked into your case. In the meantime, it's a nice afternoon outside, despite how much more thick the throng had been during the morning commute.  

But with the early hour, public mayoral meeting over with, and the evening gathering of city officials only a few hours away, normal citizens are heading home to have dinners of their own. With work, you hadn't attended the gathering, but received an extended invitation from your parents for the latter days ago. You have no intention of going, and you know your parents will not expect you to, but it was considerate of them, all the same.  

 _This crowd is enough,_ you think idly as you stand at a crosswalk admist a spread of different shoulders. Normal people of various backgrounds, mingling together, traveling the town from there to here. No polite curtseys, no finger kissing, or persistent inquiries of health or business out of decorum rather than concern.  

The cross light signals the go ahead, and the person to your right starts faster than you do, brushing into your shoulder, causing your breath to catch. 

But there are still so many.  

Swallowing, you follow the bobbing heads. Long coat sleeves, your gloves. Nothing to be concerned about, but the number of people makes an uncomfortable itch build beneath your sternum. Glancing along the wide sidewalk, you spy the Ebott Museum of History just as you stand at the center of it's sprawling staircase. 

Decision made, you start up the stone steps, walking underneath a stone overhang held aloft far above by iconic columns. Two, large banners hang from above, and you think it may be their nearby presence that you oddly feel as though you're being watched. The several front door entrances are made of glass, framed in yellow steel, one of which opening with a swish under your gentle urging. 

Inside is a moderately sized welcome area, a softly rounded desk with positions for two greeters that is only filled by one so late in the day, the human there already standing at attention. You pick up a welcome smile as you walk over, noting to yourself the way their eyes dart to you, and that their own grin comes late.  

 _Are they nervous?_  

"Good afternoon, welcome to the Ebott Museum of History," they say to you with a nod, their hands clasping together before their lap neatly.  

"Likewise," you reply, noticing then how you seem to be the only two people in the immediate vicinity.  _It is a museum late in the day, I suppose._ "I'm guessing this place has been pretty busy what with all of the visitors," you comment conversationally on your thought. 

"O-oh! Yes, it really has been. All the tourists wanting to see the peace ceremony, but things have calmed down." 

"Must be nice this time of day. I won't take up much of the museum's time," you finish, beginning to walk off to one of the wings without need of looking at the nearby directory. You've been here enough times with your own parents to know where you're going, but you glance back when the person at the desk starts to move towards you.  

"I, I-um, nevermind. Please excuse me," they wave a hand and turn to a computer at the desk, leaving you slightly befuddled. Mulling it over, you step further into the museum with the intent on heading to the western art wing. 

The transition is wonder all of it's own. The sections dedicated to the founding of the city have mostly been emptied, anything remaining covered in sheet. The rest seem to be intact, but seeing so much missing in the first exhibits is a strange sight. 

The art wing itself is intact, swathes of floor space left empty save for long, plush benches at their center for people to sit and simple admire the work. This has always been your father's favorite part of the museum, your parent holding onto your small hand as a child, and murmuring about how he could hear music through the individual pieces. Your dad was less enthusiastic, but his favorite visit had been when they featured ancient, Japanese scrolls depicting animals like frogs and rabbits at play. 

Recalling the pieces, you wonder how much of the work had purely been from imagination, what with the Froggits that frequent Ebott park. Looking at the art around you differently, you peruse old favorites meant to stay in the museum for as long as it stands, pausing with a frown at one in particular in a low lit-hall:  _Unicorn Defends Itself_.  

The wing is as empty as the remainder of the museum has been, and you think as you continue that you may very well be utterly alone there save for the one desk worker from previously. The pieces in the next section are much more subdued compared to the tapestry, a room dedicated to works depicting flowers. One stands out, a flush of faded yellow in a white vase, and you walk over to it to view the buttercups with a smile tugging at your lips. This definitely reminds you of a certain someone, and you wonder if Flowey would find the museum to be particularly calming. Focused so on your thoughts, you still manage to pick up the general quiet of the building. It is _very_ quiet, you and the desk worker may very well be the only ones here!

Your amusement is interrupted by a break in the air, a shifting of a presence entering the room, and the sound of steps across the polished wood. Muffled as they are, they are audible, and you fight the instinctual urge to turn around and see who has appeared. 

_So much for being alone, the younger part of me would be fighting the urge to run through the halls in such a circumstance otherwise._

You're distracted but can't contain the glance you give to your side when the figure enters your peripherals in a splash of color, coming to stand next to you, and their person immediately making you feel very small.

With a cloak of crimson swept over shoulders twice the size of Sans' in length, black hair that tumbles in neat curls around his head, and bone white horns that sweep wide from their crown atop his skull, King Asgore Dreemurr has come to stand beside you in the gallery.

"Beautiful, are they not?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhhhhhhhhh that happened


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might rewrite the end eventually....But here it is!

The Ebott family home is of modest measure compared to the manse they once resided in before he burned it to the ground. Loyal mages of the human kingdom that once was, they still boast a considerable wealth today, but Asgore is surprised to find that their ball room is a quarter of its original size.

A speech was given before a crowd of Ebott City's people: the elite, the modest, and even the middle class wedged firmly between that had not existed in his time. News gatherers with their flashing cameras are kept to a bare minimum, their chance to record the day's events lost with the morn. The mayor is in attendance, but merely as a formality.

Asgore clasped hands with the new patriarchs, so fresh faced as they are. One, refined, well spoken, married in. The other boisterous, eager, his Soul singing with old magic. Asgore doubts he can hear it, and did not smile during the ceremony, and the Ebott did not argue, grinning enough for them both. He's aware of what happened, knows that Asgore will never, can never forget, and the human didn't flinch when he stood beside the king's echoing frame.  
It's remarkable, this shift in the mage-family's pride: humans can evolve after all.

After the speech Asgore stands among the crowd, aware of every one his people in attendance at all times, but his focus draws again and again to the woman on the edge of the crowd. Tori, wearing a gown of white, a shawl of silver, and murmuring to the more contained Ebott carefully.

She's so much quieter then she once was...

"King Asgore."

Ah, the...other half. "William," Asgore nods to the Ebott-born, the human's smile better tamed then it was prior.

"Thought the lord mayor would never let me leave. Is it getting stuffy in here or is it me," he pulls at his suit's open collar, eyes darting around the room. The human leader across the room stands out, white toupee gleaming in the light, and monocle shining gold. "Not to mention the temperature, woah. Oh, did you see the finger food? Got it king-sized, just for you."

He nods at the buffet table littered with confections, some of which people eye in astonishment, as they happen to be something he could enjoy himself, not just find in his teeth.

"No point coming to a party if you can't eat!"

Asgore rumbles an honest chuckle at the human's undisclosed personality. It's truly refreshing meeting one of their kind that is open about their intentions.

"Thank you for your consideration. I'll be blunt and admit that you have me at an disadvantage."

The Ebott breathes out a laugh, "Least I could do is offer some howdy-towdy fish egg paste on a cracker for shoving your people in a hole for a millennium."

"Given the taste I'm tempted to go back."

The Ebott laughs much louder this time, drawing new eyes and causing old attentions to stare with no attempt at disguising themselves.

_Dad!_

Asgore's ears twitch minutely at the call that reaches him before Frisk emerges from the crowd, rocketing to his nearest leg and latching on before he can think to bend down to catch them. Over more then one head Papyrus looms nearby, Frisk's guardsman places in temporary employment for the evening, but Asgore's focus is on his child alone.

"Frisk, my child," amusement escapes through his voice before he can help himself, reservations faltering when their bobbed head grins up and up and up to his crimson eyes.

"Do you have everyone wrapped around your finger yet?" As they did him the instant they first met.

Frisk grins lavishly, the cunning within it causing a part of Asgore to quell in fear that their flirtations might one day turn serious. "Of course! Everyone is so nice!"

Asgore notes that they choose to sign their response, and his guard strengthens ten fold with an Ebott so close to his one living child. The patriarch's smile bursts anew at the sight of Frisk, hands removing from their pant pockets to make motions in the air Asgore finds familiar.

"Holy cow, its the hero of the people themselves!" He squats down to stand at eye level with Frisk, who hesitates for merely a blink before beaming in his direction. Asgore watches their every move, knowing he can turn the Ebott into a smear if their Soul flickers dark for even a breath.

"I'm William Ebott, my family basically ruined everything. Nice to meet you!"  
Frisk's own Soul giggles audibly to their father, and they're eager to return the offered handshake before replying.

"Frisk! Polaris is a lot like you!"

The human's smile wavers, caught off guard, but his hands come up quickly to respond. "You've met my kid?"

Frisk nods, "I visited them with my friend Sans. I've never seen anyone he's warmed up to so fast!"

A blush of fondness spreads over the Ebott's features, the very one Asgore knew he wore looking down at Frisk a moment before, and the human nods. "That's my Pol-star for you."

"I was no less fortunate in meeting their acquaintance," Asgore begins, watching as the human is again surprised as they begin to stand, Frisk's eyes rounding in excitement. "It was only this afternoon."

"Really? Here? In town?" He points at the floor and Asgore is amazed that he appears vaguely ruffled. "How, how were they? How did it go?" This is the first break in composure the human has shown all night. But given what Papyrus has gathered, Asgore has no reason to even raise a brow.

"Well," He looks off to the side, recalling the encounter with the youngest Ebott several hours before. "They are..."

  
Once upon a time you and your instructor did a search in flowers because you were curious on which ones you liked best. Together you both decided on Poor Man's Weatherglass, their many flowered bushels growing in blue or orange. Along the way you discovered many different breeds of flowers, some standing out more the others and cementing themselves in your memory until all it takes is the right cue for them to come to you again.

One of those flowers is the Blanket, Gailliardia grandflora, which has a red center stretching out against a backdrop of thin, yellow petals.

Asgore's hair is black like oil, red highlights shining in curls under the light when he turns his head. His upward curving horns are scarred, desperate claws having scoured marks into their fine marble. But when you meet his eyes you can only think of flowers.

_Beautiful, are they not?_

"They truly are," you at last remark, aware of the growing silence between the two of you and feeling very aware of yourself.

Asgore's eyes slide away from you and to the still life, the great king speaking as as his observation otherwise rakes over the painting. "Polaris Ebott, it was time I met you in person."

"You know who I am," you ask up to him, having to step back to meet his gaze, and hoping that your movement had not been taken as a sign of retreat. Smiling amicably, you reply with a laugh in your voice. "If I may be so bold, I may assume to guess that you made certain that we run into one another."

"You would be correct," he answers, and returns his attention to you. "But you are not so unique."

Tilting your head in question but hardly offended, you wait for his explanation.  
"Your city's leader, the lords that would house my people, the family that trapped us under the mountain, I would seek to know all that may potentially make things difficult for our survivability on the Surface," he replies, his inflections measured, never to loud or soft, and vibrating with each word through your very core. "I know everything about you, Polaris Ebott. Your history, your weaknesses, your every acquaintance." Here he turns, looks down at you head on. "Including your encounter with my child."

A breath rattles in your throat before you can check yourself. Frisk, he can only mean Frisk.

"You mean Frisk," you ask near redundancy, frowning thoughtfully before it clicks. "I can see the resemblance!"

If there could ever be a moment during this conversation that you think the king capable of surprise it would be now, the barest hint of movement in his stony expression giving it away. "Oh?" He asks, clearly wondering what about a colossal, long eared monarch could have in common with a tiny, human child.

A grin of success bursts onto your face, "It's their natural charisma! You are both magnificent at leaving an impression on people!"

His laughter is sudden and earth shattering, there and gone as quickly as it came, leaving the air around you so lacking with its sound that the natural silence of the gallery feels intrusive.

You can't even be sure if it happened at all.

"A well crafted response, Ebott," he speaks in a growl, but you don't think you're imaging things when after a few blinks you register the curl to his lips.

"Only an honest one, I'm afraid," you chuckle, still faintly off kilter.

"Thus the best you could have offered," he answers smoothly, and you wonder what he would have done had you lied.

"I very much enjoyed meeting them," you continue in your truth telling. "Frisk shows a level of patience and a sense of understanding that I'm afraid I could never master myself."

Asgore makes a sound of agreement in his throat, eyes diverted in thought, although you know he will not forget about your presence for an instant. "My child is the only one that could have saved us from the dark. Which brings me to my reason for seeking you out today," his gaze refocuses on your person, and a chill sweeps up your spine as he stares unblinking endlessly down into your gaze. "Like human Souls, human bodies are quiet stubborn for a time. If you hurt my child, I will enjoy skinning you alive, and eating your repulsive flesh before your still gaping eyes."

The silence stretches thin, screaming in your ears, no different then the force beneath your rib cage echoing the same: run, run. You're only human and every primal instinct woven in your DNA is screaming at you to run.

But your hopes and dreams are so much younger and so much more fool hardy and it is they that keep you rooted in your spot.

Don't run, don't go, don't repeat your family's mistakes.

"I hope that you would."

Your voice finds you before your thoughts can, but when you hear it, you press on, a firmness entering your tone, and with it that same honesty he favors. "Anyone that would hurt a child deserves no right to quarter."

Asgore considers you quietly, cooly, unresponding.

"And you are utterly terrifying," your laughter trembles in your mouth, a sigh escaping with it. "I'll not forget this for the rest of my life."

A huff of air comes from his nostrils, and you feel a faint stirring of warmth in the air. "That was my intention."

On that note he leaves. Simply goes, uncovered feet making not a sound across the floor, and with him the pressure fades.

You weren't aware of how utterly suffocating it was until your knees give away from under you, leaving the painting hanging above your head, and your pupils rattling in your skull.

You're still so scared, god you're scared. Asgore promised the world that he would not move against it for the sake of his people, but you know, you just know, if you had done the wrong thing he wouldn't have hesitated to rip you in half. And he could do it, he could do it so, so easily.

A shocked laugh echoes through the room. You're sweating, still shaking as you run a hand through your hair.

You've finally met him, king Asgore, and there's a large part of you in awe of that fact. A delirious part, no doubt. But the remainder only feels very small.

A mere speck in his gaze, in his thousand plus years of existing, you haven't felt this insignificant since they pulled you out of the earth with your instructor. Your friend. Your first love. Her black curls shining red in the light when they lifted her up. Her mouth parted, teeth marble white. And her blank eyes wide, unaware that she had died underneath a field of flowers.

  
In the ball room before the second eldest Ebott alive, Asgore considers the memory anew. Polaris had been terrified, quaking where they stood. But they smiled, they didn't run, and what they had said to him in response to his promise remained unaltered in his mind.

_I would hope that you would._

"They were endearing," he responds to their father's query with a quiet pull of his lips. The other man's expression shifts to relief, completely unaware of the threat on his child's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No computer, and soon no internet access. Gosh, life just does not want me to write this story. Never fear! In a few short weeks I plan on restoring both, until then thank you everyone for remaining so patient with me ;A;


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this chap weeeeeeks ago...but accidentally deleted it when i was done.  
> thought the ending was a bit much, but??? you kno what??? fluff 4 life, fite me.

Curiousity. Disgust. Awe. Gliding down a sidewalk located in downtown Ebott City, Mettaton takes it all in. Humans really are a delightfully nosey bunch, and he can’t help but enjoy himself: all eyes are on him and it’s barely noon.

Latticed windows, a door painted red, bricks trimmed with green ivy, he delights in his choice of where to meet his newest business partner, and a bell chimes over head when he enters. 

Attention, the old flame, rushes to him in an instant, and he peruses the room with slow sensors. Ah! There you are. He would know that face anywhere, and not simply because he had made sure to know  _ everything _ before the two of you were due to meet. 

Neatly combed hair, a cute, long sleeved sweater, pressed slacks, and posture that reeks of good breeding or years of careful training. Both, probably in your circumstance, but boy do you pull it off without even noticing. 

You looked distracted at first, your eyes lost in the confines of your coffee mug, but a he approaches your eyes blink, gaze focuses, and so your acquaintance begins. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late, darling,” Mettaton says, removing the scarf wrapped around his upper half, but leaving the coat. “You would not  _ believe _ the traffic on sixth.”

“Mister Flamel!” You chirp, rising unexpectedly from your seat and meeting him with a smile paired with a gloved hand. Metatton hesitates for only a fraction of a second before meeting you halfway, privately examining the gloves that adorn your palms. Worn, mended with care, but stylish, they remind him of his own old favorites: what good taste!

“It’s wonderful to finally meet you,” you exclaim, and Mettaton is again surprised. Yes, they always love it when they finally see their chance to sink their jaws into his processor, but there wasn’t a hint of malicious intent in your vocal patterns. This could be interesting. Or unsettling.

“Mettaton, please,” he replies as the two of you sit, his flat bottom perching lightly on the edge of the seat. “Flamel is my creator’s calling card.”

Picking up the briefcase propped up against the legs of your chair, you push aside your coffee cup, and shortly Mettaton is greeted with the first glimpse of his manuscript that he’s seen since...well, since it was sent in. 

“What do you think, darling? Was it marvelous? Did you weep? I’m no author but I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself,” he says, leaning into the glass topped table comfortably, his frame leaning into one propped up arm.

“It was terrible!” He jolts in his seat immediately.

_ What-? _

You just keep smiling, and he could get lost in those eyes in any other circumstance, but  _ who smiles like that when they’re giving bad news?  _

“It’s amazing really,” you say, thumbing through the stack of paper separating the two of you, “There’s the presence of chapters, a possible beginning, middle, and end, but it runs together so smoothly and topics come up that are never elaborated on or mentioned again. It reads very much like a confession given during drunken tangent,” you admit, unaware of the spinning of his inner fans, their speed mounting as you go on. “It’s so very honest, I admire your courage in sharing this with the world.” 

Courage? Admire? Drunken tangent? 

(….not that you would be wrong.)

Mettaton still very much remembers that night, his head held high, his voice higher, and the tips of his gloved hands stained red from the wine glass he brandished. Printing off his conversation with the cosmos, stuffing it into a manilla envelope, and shoving it into his secretary’s arms to be sent out to the world really seemed like a lovely idea at the time. And it really is their fault for abiding his every whim. 

(They should be fired. They should be given a raise. A raise and then fired, why not both?)

Mettaton never expected it to actually be accepted by a publishing house, let alone you of all people. 

(But with the way the gossip goes...maybe it isn’t luck after all?)

An idea he had been playing with idly comes back to the surface, but he still needs to know why?

“To be able to send out this apology letter to the people you owe your life to the most,” you go on, your lashes lowering as you smooth a finger over the title page. “The regret you have with your cousin, the simultaneous feelings of anger and gratitude you hold for the doctor, your admiration for a certain tall monster,” here you look up, wink, and Mettaton’s screen flashes from yellow to red. But then you mellow, your lips softening as your eyes take on a distant gleam. “This is the sort of bravery I could only ever dream of sharing with my loved ones.”

Mettaton perks up at the implication.

There’s a story there, he would bet his career on that, but he does know your history after all. How can there not be something that the papers have missed? 

Not to mention the rumors circulating the monsterworld. Even above ground his kind covets gossip like gold, their lives spent in the dreary deep leaving little for entertainment, let alone for something new to enjoy. 

But even if it weren’t for your sordid human history and the presence of a certain famous brother at your side, Mettaton would find it hard to ignore your words.

Something flutters lightly in his chest at your praise, and he fans himself feigning outward embarrassment (that admittedly has a touch of truth to it). “Darling, such honesty, such kindness. It isn’t often that someone has a chance to glimpse beneath my MTT brand glitter coated exterior to see the darkness underneath and yet still walks away singing my name!”

The shadow in your gaze is chased away, and oh,  _ my _ , Sans you better hold onto this one, because even he can feel his motherboard warming up.

It’s the way your hair falls across your forehead, the striking of the light in your eyes, the gentle slope of your shoulders, a posture devoid of intimidation or defense. There’s chatter in the air, light music on the speakers, a bell chimes above the door in the background that is the world, and the words that fall from your lilting lips are as smooth as newly spun silk

“It’s because underneath it all you still shine so brilliantly, Mettaton.”

It’s settled. There isn’t any pussyfooting around left to be done. He’s made his decision and he would be a fool to change his mind!

The remainder of the their talk is about his script. You give the one on the table to him as his very own copy of the first draft, the pages thick with comments, paper tabs, and even handwritten notes made in your own elegant writing. Numbers are traded, a favorable next date to meet, and hope rises within him that he’s taken yet another step to being a real star in the human world as well as his own.

But when things are slipped away, it’s time to live for the  _ now _ . “Now enough about me darling, let’s move onto you,” he says, crossing his arms on the table and settling in for business. “I have a proposition to make, Polaris Ebott, and I would very much like if you didn’t say no.”

You eyes flutter wide, mouth set in a frown, but there’s a flare of curiosity there and he can hear his processors humming with excitement.

_ This is going to be fun. _

 

“One lump, or two?”

The sun is shining. Flowers are blooming. It’s a damn nice day.

And Sans doesn’t know  _ what the fuck is going on. _

They’re in the center of a garden, bushes fit to bursting with color, grass under their feet as green as underripe apples, and a shadow of a tree’s many limbs cast over the pristine, white table between them.

Round the edges are a couple of matching chairs, dainty things, and his own is squeaking under the weight of him. The tea party at the center isn’t what’s got his goose, it’s you across from him, lifting a china jar with a flowy-shaped, glass rim in one hand, while the other grips a pair of tiny tongs. 

You’re wearing a white suit trimmed with blue, and your human skin is practically glowing in the sunlight, Sans forgets what you’ve just asked, sweat threatening to bead out on his skull.

“uh…” He blinks, noticing just then that he’s holding a saucer and teacup with both hands, the sight looking ridiculous paired with his pointed fingers. “t-tw-two?”

You smile, pleased about something, and lean forward, Sans stuttering to meet you halfway and let you drop of couple of cubes in the tea that wasn’t there a second ago. 

_ this has gotta be a dream _ , he finally thinks, his reflection somehow fitting perfectly within the confines of his cup. He looks like shit. 

“Take anything you want,” you speak up, and Sans meets your eyes again, seeing the sweep of your arms over the table. Plates of cookies, cakes, tiny sandwiches materialized into being, the logic of the dream telling him they’d always been there, and he knew it.

“uh, heh,” he tries a weak smile, feeling like jello under your attention after being days away from it, and tries to reach forward for something overly frosted and dotted with purple. A cookie? Fuck if he knows.

But then he stops when the dishes shake under the force of you planting your palms on the table, Sans freezing up as you stand, leaning forward. “Anything at all,” you say, voicing dipping in a way he’s only heard once, and your copy cat mimics the phrase in his head when you’re only inches away from his flushed skull: “I’m more interested in what your prefer, big guy.”

_ shitshitshit,  _ he’s leanign back in his chair but there’s only so far he can go before you’ve climbed on the table, sweets crushed under your movements, sticking to your clothing, and he’s still holding that dumb cup of tea when your lips-

“SANS!”

The sun is abruptly extinguished as Sans opens his eyes, jolting to a sitting position as he tries to get his bearings. His eyes blink around the room, unnecessary breath shuddering in his ribcage. 

It’s near dark as pitch in here, but he can make out the shape of a desk pressed against the wall across the room, a scattering of lumps on the floor for clothing, a treadmill standing neglected in the corner opposite of the bed, and a rectangle shape outline in light that must be the door, til’ he’s certain of it when it comes flying open.

“SANS,” his brother practically screeches, one hand on the knob while his arm cradles...Paps’ laptop? “WAKE UP, YOU HEATHEN, AND TELL ME RIGHT NOW WHAT YOUR HUMAN THINKS THEY ARE DOING THIS INSTANT!”

“what the fuck, boss,” he yells back, stretching a leg out of bed and getting the other tangled up in his sheet when he tries to put his feet on the floor. 

“LANGUAGE,” his bro snaps, sweeping into the room in two quick strides. “WE REPRESENT THE FINEST OUR PEOPLE HAVE TO OFFER, AND IF YOU THINK FOR ONE MOMENT THAT THE USE OF-!”

“the heck you talkin’ about,” Sans interrupts, stopping his brother’s rants in his tracks, and making him raise a brow bone.  _ shit _ , Sans realizes his mistake. He usually never interrupts his youngest bro even in the middle of one of his spiels, but he didn’t even think about it, he  _ just _ did.

Sans was freaking tired. 

Ever since the freaking king decided to show up in town and the human mayor busted out the welcoming party it’s been non-stop work for him on all fronts. The parade on the day of the damn welcome speech was the worst, fuck if humans didn’t love their hot dogs, and there’d been a lot of um. 

As it was, he’d just been taking a nap before his shift at Grillby’s, and stuff was expected to settle down after today, but even with the much needed sleep that didn’t change the fact that something else had been missing lately. 

_ don’t you fucking dare _ , he hissed to himself in his head when he even came close to thinking about it. He’d done it damn well enough during the few times he could catch a freaking break, he didn’t need to do it now with his brother yelling in his face. 

But it itched like corruption, and only made his mood worse. 

“AS YOU HAVE BEEN ACTUALLY TRYING FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE TO MAKE SOMETHING OF YOURSELF LATELY,” his brother speaks up, distracting him momentarily. “I’LL EXERCISE SOMETHING YOU SORELY LACK AND SHOW PATIENCE.”

“yeah, you're the epitome of monkhood, ain’t ya?”

“WHAT WAS THAT?”

“what are you talking about, paps?”

“YOUR HUMAN, AND MY INFORMANT,” he says, reaching over Sans’ head and yanking the blackout curtain from the window next to the bed. Sans’ winces at the sudden rush of sunlight, but his attention instantly refocuses when Paps’ shoves his laptop in his face. “YOU WOULD THINK THAT THEY WOULD SEE FIT TO TELL ME OF THEIR PLANS TO MEET WITH ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT PEOPLE OF ALL THE UNDERGROUND, BUT EVIDENTLY, WE ARE NOT THE ONLY ONES WITH AN  _ AGENDA  _ BETWEEN OUT KINDS!”

Sans doesn’t respond, his eyes wide as he takes the laptop from his brother, eye lights locked on the image on the screen. You smile brightly in the video, waving at a camera he can’t see, and for a second he has to wonder if this is still a dream when the sunlight streaming through the window hits the surface of the laptop, the glare making it look as though your skin is glowing. 

_ “what the fuck?!” _

 

Mettaton’s home is as almost as grandiose as his personality, and you hum appreciated in it’s modern design: tall, straight walls that reach high, diagonally sloped rooftops, ceilings hanging far above your head , and marble floor polished to a shine underfoot. 

There’s a snug living area with a fireplace to your left, a hint of a kitchen beyond the dining area to your right, and down the short hall directly across from the entrance is a larger area for entertaining guests, complete with plush couches and a glimpse of the backyard patio. Above your head you know a pair of bedrooms look out over the front yard, because their great windows give everything away. Every window in the house seems to be oversized, taking up whole walls, and offering a wonderful view of the trimmed lawn. But it’s the staircase tucked into the wall between the two living rooms that Mettaton takes you to, the metallic monster making up with ease when his wheel is temporarily replaced with an extra set of hands that loop out from his chasey. 

Leading you through cream colored halls, Mettaton speaks, pointing out each room, giving a tour without really showing you all of the details, and you make appropriate, if genuine remarks. If you were with anyone else, you would assume that he had come from a wealthy background, but no, Mettaton built all of this himself.

Rising from the life of a snail farmer, Mettaton had quickly become the star of the underground when he received his very own physical form from a Doctor Alphys Flamel. After that he made a killing in providing his world with something they often sorely lacked: entertainment for the fun of it.

But not only that, but entertainment that spoke of hope, of freedom of the outside, and of quickly demolishing anyone that stood in their path of doing so. To be frank, he made bank off of the profits, and came to the surface with more gold than most monsters.

That wasn’t to say that most monsters with previous work in the underground didn’t start off with at least middle class savings when they did rise up. It was the problem of properties over priced and often destroyed by terrorists after purchase that started to quickly drain their savings. Add that onto goods they could only buy from afar because locals refused to sell to them, as well as money use for medical expenses if they were attacked, and more of the like and the formerly potentially well-to-do new residents of the above ground quickly found themselves impoverished…

_ Not that human society didn’t benefit in the process _ , you frown, waving off Mettaton’s concern with an appreciative smile when he asks about it.  _ All we’ve done is complain about their presence here and yet we’ve only ever been better for it. _

That Mettaton ha managed to buy and keep such a home is physical evidence of how deceptively powerful he is even in his current form, box shaped and much more compact compared to the moe human-esque transformation he’s capable of undertaking. 

_ The one that simultaneously gave him hope, and then crushed it the moment he first took it on. _

You’ve made no mention of the trials Mettaton faced in his book, keeping your lunch together mostly focused on business, save for your hiccup previous when you confessed to admiring the strides he made to make it to where he is today. 

But then Mettaton made a more than surprising offer, and less than an hour after their talk at the cafe you find yourself entering his private recording studio.

Mettaton makes you quickly comfortable, offering drinks, a place for your briefcase, a comfortable chair sitting before an impressive desktop computer, complete with recording equipment, and it’s short work before you make your first debut on WhoTube in years. 

“Hello, beauties and gentlebeauties! Monsters and human alike! I’m your glorious host, Mettaton!” Mettaton introduces with a flourish, sitting beside you on his very own cushioned stool, and despite being apart of the show, you have to resist the urge to clap yourself, with the way you feel yourself smiling. He’s even playing music to accompany your conversation, and it’s pretty upbeat. 

“Welcome to my channel! Today we have a wonderful, magnificent, and fantastic guest, the very person that I mentioned last week at the end of our show!” 

This takes you off guard, and you falter momentarily, Mettaton catching onto your surprise in an instant: “Yes, that’s right, dear. I couldn’t help myself, but who would, what with the news circulating the surface in our tight little community,” he asks with a graceful shrug of his square shoulders, and turns backs to the camera. “That’s right, everyone! It’s the human turning heads in the monster realm, the one and only, Polaris Ebott!” 

You're quick as a flash at smiling at the camera, your heart palpitating wildly in your chest as the numbers rise, and over a thousand eyes are suddenly aimed in your direction.

 

“sweet hoNEY ICED TEA-,” William’s voice rises as he runs into the garden parlor of his home, his husband looking up from his laptop and afternoon lunch to smile gently at their raving spouse. “ELL! ELL, THE POL-DAR!” 

He runs around the small table, grabbing the back of his husband’s chair with one hand to support himself and leaning in to open a new tab, when your voice floats into his ears: “ _ Buna _ , everyone!”

Elliot’s chest fills with a familiar warmth at the sight of their child, and William blushes sheepishly. Of course Elliot would know that he would come rushing in the instant the heard news about you. They had their accounts set to keep track of when or if any mention of you is made, the parents always eager to know of any new change in your social activities in the public over the past few years, but sadly it had mostly been quiet, until today.

A scrape fills the air as William drags his chair over to sit it next to his husband’s, a quick apology given and a kiss on a cheek in acceptance following, but neither turns their eyes away from the screen for very long. 

“ _ Thank you for being on the show for the day, lovely, _ ” Mettaton says casually, like an old friend, but ever since Elliot had begun following his channel the father had admired the monster’s natural level of charisma. 

_ “I’m humbled that you asked. Thank you, Mettaton,” _ you reply, as open and honest as always, something that never changed, even if it wasn’t often that you spoke to your family anymore. 

“ _ Ever the people pleaser, I can’t help myself, _ ” Mettaton preens, practically winking at the camera, even without eyes. Or eyelids, for that matter. “ _ Now, I’ve tried to keep the news to myself for as long as possible, but after meeting with Polaris today for lunch, I simply can’t help myself!  _

“ _ As you all may not know, Polaris here is not only a child born of the familiar and fabulously wealthy Ebott family, the very ones that founded our dear city _ ,” he begins, Elliot taking a sip from his tea and examining Mettaton’s every word. “ _ But what you may not be aware of, is our dear is an employee of Otter Books, a company that will be in charge of publishing my very first autobiography!” _

The comments section explodes with emotion. Excitement, anger, the occasional inappropriate joke. But the numbers are climbing rapidly.

Only days ago Elliot and his husband met with King Asgore Dreemurr in front of the world. It was an incredibly important part of history now, a follow up in the act that help set the stage some months ago, when humankind first encountered monsterkind in what was a very, long time.  

But this. These are two of the newest of each people, sitting together and talking on a popular media outlet. An Ebott supporting a monster, a monster like Mettaton making it clear that they have connections now among the humans, and everyone would know it. Although the conference between their family and the royals had been on television and in papers for days now, this would quickly overtake it by a landslide, Elliot could see it now. 

The way Mettaton was speaking, Elliot didn’t have a mind to be worried about his attentions...yet. He was being honest in his friendship with their child, but, monster or not, if that were to lead anywhere less than favorable, it could hurt relations. More importantly, it could hurt Polaris. 

_ I’ll be watching,  _ Elliot promises them both, finishing his cup. 

 

The views are off the charts! Mettaton’s fanbase on the surface had been building for ages now, but today is definitely going to be a record breaking hit since his first video. Hs plan is turning out fabulously, just as he predicted, and you’re so comfortable on camera, it’s only Mettaton’s inner sensors that are telling him that you’re nervous. 

Understandable, since the last time you were filmed someone had died. But he would keep the toll to a minimum, for today at least. 

“Thank to this wonderful human being, my face will be hitting store shelves everywhere in a few short months! Look forward to it, “ _ In the Spotlight! _ ”” He spreads his hands, for affect, and you clap much to his delight. “In the meantime, let’s get to know our editor! Polaris. Pol. Can I call you, Pol?” 

 

Sans clinches his jaw, how scowl twitching when the toaster practically purrs your nickname.  _ watch it, you fuckin-. _

“ _ Or do you prefer Slick? _ ”

_ fuck. _

 

You redden immediately at the name drop, and Mettaton cheers from inside his walls: bingo!

“There’s a little bird that’s been tweeting about how you’ve been seen in town with a certain someone,” he goes on, making no comment on your reaction to the camera. “A big bag of bones that’s a little rough around the edges. Normally I might not drag someone’s personal life onto my stage to make a show of it-,” he can’t help but stop himself with a laugh, it’s too much! “Alright, that’s a lie, but this time, this isn’t just about me! It’s about all of us!,” he motions at the camera, taking everyone in. “You’re helping make history darling, and, I can’t help but ask, but how did you meet?”

You blink, taking a moment to gather yourself, “Oh, well, I-.” It’d be the perfect act of innocence if it were exactly that, an act. But you’re still blushing lightly as you go on, it’s adorable! “We met in a coffee shop in town one morning, some time ago.”

“A coffee shop? How romantic! And when talking about that skeleton, that’s saying something,” Mettaton says almost as an aside, and your blush recedes, frown appearing once where there wasn’t one. Oh, someone’s a little protective. “Tell me darling, was it love at first sight?”

You laugh, and it’s almost self deprecating, what you say next. “I was doing all the staring I assure you. But despite how rude I was, he was nothing short of kind. He even stood up for me that day when someone sought an argument I thought finished, and went so far as to comfort me afterwards.”

Mettaton gasp, hand up and all, “Are you serious? Are we, we talking about the same person? The monster I have in mind is a brute! A scoundrel of terrible habits and even worse hygiene!”

You flinch noticeably, your smile entirely gone now. “I assure you he’s nothing of the sort,” you say, voice growing more firm as your temper rises, and Mettaton listens in growing excitement. “I don’t know what he is known for underground, and it’s true that I have much to learn about him, but he’s been nothing short of wonderful to me. He’s been patient with my every need. He’s made me laugh, dealt with my insecurities, my nuances. Hes protected my very life from danger! Anyone that has a problem with him and refuses to see him for how incredible a person he truly is has no business being in my acquaintance, let alone mine.”

Eyes narrowed, voice steely, mouth set firm.  _ There’s the money shot.  _

“Now that’s what I call loyalty,” Mettaton quips, and you relax, probably reminding yourself of where you are exactly, although the stiffness of your shoulders doesn’t go away. “I’m happy that one of our own was so fortunate to find someone like you. Do you hear that? You take care of our Polaris, darling,” he says to the camera, but a flash of realization crosses your face, and Mettaton only wishes he could smirk in this form.

“He...he’s watching, right now?”

“What I do know if my biggest fan watches my every episode the moment it airs, and that fan maaaaay be related to a,” he chuckles. “”Certain someone”. So, it’s very likely.”

Your head whips back to the screen, eyes wide as saucers, and Mettaton witnesses a remarkable transformation of your shocked expression melting into a beaming smile, and you wave attractively. 

 

“SANS.”

Papyrus shakes his brother’s shoulder roughly, trying to get his attention, but Sans barely notices the movement, Paps voice coming from somewhere submerged underwater.

He’s too focused on your face on the screen, the red on your cheeks, the smile on your face, and just seconds ago you were defending him on camera. In front of thousands of people. And you were pissed.

Sans has to clutch at his chest to get a hold of himself, but it doesn’t have any affect in snapping him out of his daze, and his Soul isn’t stopping from rocketing around his rib cage either. 

_ f-fuck that was hot _

 

A trill interrupts Mettaton’s attention, and he “oh’s” at the sound, picking up the receiver from next to the computer and drawing your notice. 

“It looks like we have a caller,” he chirps, and places it on speaker after a quick read of the name. “Doctor! How nice of you to want to be apart of a show! Have you heard about my book-.”

_ “T-that’s why I’m calling, you i-idiot!”  _ Mettaton frowns, warning creeping up inside.  _ “I-I-I got the draft you sent me in the mail, Mettaton! If, if, if you think that, that for one moment the king is going to let you publish some, something as detailed as this-!” _

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ll send him a signed copy when it’s finished, don’t you worry-!”

_ “Me-Mettaton if you don’t come down here and tah, talk to me this instant about this I s-swear I’ll show everyone your-!” _

“Well, that’s enough for the day. Clock’s ticking, and this episode is nearly over,” he interjects as quickly as he can, a tremble dancing along his Soul. He  _ knows _ what she was going to bring up. “We’ll talk later, darling. Kisses!” He hangs up immediately, hoping that’s enough to persuade her from acting, for now, and when nothing goes off warning him of a transformation, he almost breathes a sigh of relief. “That Alphys, always the worry wart!

“Thank you again, Polaris, for being on my show,” Mettaton says, turning back to the matter at hand, and although he knows he sees the concern in your eyes--you did read his book after all-- Mettaton doesn’t say anything. “I’ll see all you wonderful creatures the next time I go live, but in the meantime, give a goodbye, darling.”

You reply in the space of a beat, lips already curving up: “ Rămas bun, Sans!” 

 

_ Slick. _

Your name was on his caller ID a few minutes before he was set to ‘port to Grillby’s, and Sans was hesitant to talk to you after earlier, but that didn’t stop his body from answering a split second later. 

“what is it?”

“ _ Sans _ ,” you start, tentatively he thinks, and he glares at his bedroom wall, knowing exactly why you would be nervous to talk to him. “ _ Do you have any open days this week? _ ”

“what, so you can talk about me on live television next?”

You make a sound, halfway between a laugh and a sigh, and he can hear how anxious you are through the phone, making something twist up inside of him. There’s something louder on the end, wind? Are you outside? Sans remembers how it felt earlier, and he might be used to that stuff, but he knows you can’t have as high of a resistance to cold as he can.

“ _ Can, can I explain myself _ ,” you ask, but he says nothing. He doesn’t know what to say. That he’s embarrassed? That he pissed off at the box for bringing him up? That seeing you riled up and talking about him was fucking amazing and  _ fuck _ it’s been days-.

_ “I miss you, Sans.” _

“friday,” he can’t stop himself from saying, and tries again. “‘m free friday.”

He can see you smiling, even from inside his house, and his phone protests under the grip of his hand. 

_ “I’m looking forward to it! _ ”

After the call ends, he’s greeted with the sight of a picture you insisted on taking at Grillby’s with the call log blinking under it in red. 

You’re sitting next to him in his booth, smooshed as close to his side as you can get so you can both fit in the shot, and holding the camera up yourself. He looks like a mess, with the dumbest grin on his face, while you're just being you. Shining, happy, looking completely ridiculous wedged next to him.

_ “I miss you, Sans.” _

“i miss you, too, slick,” he mutters roughly to the open air, only silence following after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is when my brain chimes in and says: now, just a bit more, then. we burn everything. 
> 
> random fact: UTM lit. was originally going to take place with Pol finding their Soul trapped Underground, piggy backing on Frisk's soul in order to not fade away, and meeting the monsters during Frisk's final, pacifist run of the game. It would have ft. the classic crew, and would have con. on the surface when they were freed.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAIT! Before you flee, this chapter was indeed posted previously, but it has new content now! I accidentally deleted it, and, seeing my folly, I decided to take the chance to tack on some more shenanigans for fun. I'll remind everyone about the new stuff next chapter, but for now, I hope you enjoy it!

You are at once aware of the close confines of the space around you. When you breathe, a harsh ragged sound, it plumes against her skin and brushes back against your own. A small, inconsequential thing previously that was joined with quick giggling, nights spent reading books after hours under bed sheets when you were younger. Now the warmth threatens to make you shiver, eyes blown wide but seeing nothing in the darkness smothering your senses.

 _It’ll be okay_ , she would have said, had words been an option, but the hour is growing late, and you’re very aware of the pen clutched between your joined hands. As if you could hold onto it for a little longer, convince her that this is not the option, but she’s always been stronger than you, and a combination of panic and oxygen deprivation is making it harder to hold on.

Sweat slips through your fingers when you fight her efforts to take the writing implement away, but your efforts are useless, and with one hand she holds onto your own, while the other holds the pen fast.

Taking your hand, it’s an effort to stop you from taking it back, as well as meant to comfort you at the same time. You know it must be sapping strength from what she needs to do what she had planned to.

 _The only way_ , she said. How could it be? _How could it ever be?_

Desperation leads you to whispering her name in the box, quick, senseless pleas for to stop, to wait longer, _to please don’t leave me_

A sharp, utterance of pain is her only reply to this. Followed by a scrambling of movement where you shake of her hand, reach forward to cup her neck between your palms--you can feel it buried there, it’s so wrong, it shouldn’t be there--and something warmer than breath presses against your skin, sliding between fingers, slipping down your arm, and she’s struggling, her natural instincts to survive overwhelming her need to save your life.

She stills too quickly, the croaking of her breath stutters out too fast to you to comprehend that a single action would be so powerful as to end so many years of life, and you’re whispering her name again in the dark.

But she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t allow her chest to expand and compress because she can’t.

And you keep whispering her name even as you keep holding on, pressing your face against her’s, feeling lips against your cheek, but no smile to accompany them.

Time is undefined as it passes, but when the sound of voices come, you make no effort to respond to them. Light comes in slivers and spots, peering through cracks and holes in the makeshift coffin you’ve been lain in, until it bursts into being, the lid wretched away.

It’s too much for your eyes to take, pain making your eyelids flutter, but you catch glimpses of her eyes, open still. Lips parted slightly, and a smear of red gracing her cheek like a brush stroke.

They pull you out first, her body rolling under your attempt to keep hold of her, _you refuse to leave her in that box alone_ , but your limbs betray you again, and you're removed from the corpse of your friend. Voices buzz like angry flies in the air, a yellow excavator sits near the hole, police cruisers dot the field of flowers, and the arms around you tighten as another pair joins in their embrace.

You don’t smell your dad's musk or respond to the rare, audible crying of your father, you only watch as a faceless stranger pulls her out of the ground, her arms spread eagle, legs hanging limp, eyes open towards the sky, and blood dripping like syrup from her hair.

The black expanse of your bedroom ceiling rises up to meet your line of sight, and although when the startled air escapes your mouth does not come back to flee into your nasal passages it’s all you can do to keep from falling out of your bed in an attempt to reach for your bedside lamp.

The light flickers on, a pristine, yellow glow that causes shadows to shrink back into the corners of the room, a room that is large, sparsely accompanied by funiture thus allowing more maneuverability, and that’s exactly how you’ve come to prefer it.

The cold of the floor seeps into the soles of your socks, feet planted firmly by the bedside, and hands clutching onto your white sheet that was entirely too constricting the moment you woke up and now lies in a heap behind you. Your lungs are gasping, breathing ragged, greedy, _too much, you shouldn’t be breathing so much,_ and your hands shake when held before you.

Red, like syrup, tracing your lifeline, your marriage line, caught in the crescents if your finger nails

You close your eyes, heart protesting at the sudden darkness, but it interrupts the image and when you open then again, the red is gone. A shudder runs along your spine, breathing when you swallow against the dryness of your throat.  

What time is it?

Your hands move quickly across the pillow next to your bed pointlessly, before you shove it underneath it’s form, relief quickening in your guy when you feel the weight of your phone and nearly causing it to skitter over the side. A quick press of your finger against its side button, and numbers appear: 4:08 am, the 8 changing to 9 in the space of a beat.

Your eyes refocus on the image behind them, and you swipe across the screen, the lock screen vanishing to allow the background picture to focus.

You close your eyes and press your forehead against the cool glass, and this time your brain does not protest. Instead you hear the bubbling of laughter, Sans guffawing loudly that night at Grillby’s at your recount of your first experience with a telescope.

_“I remember hurting myself after it was set up.”_

_“how the heck did you do that?”_

_“My parents were unrolling the picnic and I saw that it could spin on it’s tripod. I was anxious, so I swiped at it...which caused it to swing around and hit me on the back of my head.”_

_“bahaha! smooth!”_

Needless to say, the embarrassing incident refuses to fade in your mind after all this time, but it’s the memory of Sans cackling that leads you to begin to smile.

Lifting your head from your phone, it slips away again when you see the mark of sweat your skin has left on it’s surface. Humming in discontent, you try to wipe it away, further lengthening the mark, and press harder against the screen.

You phone chimes, and you blink in abrupt confusion when the image changes, a bottle of spicy mustard filling the screen, and the words, “Big Guy” underneath them.

Panic takes over, and you tap at the end call button in a rush, and mercifully it complies, only a few seconds into the ringing when it shuts off.

You sigh gratefully, rubbing at your eyes. It wouldn’t do for you to accidentally call Sans so early in the morning! He finally has a chance to sleep in, and you’ll be seeing him tomorrow, after all.

_I wouldn’t be against hearing his voice tonight.._

Your phone chimes, you open your eyes, surprise filling your veins when you see the message on screen: **Sans Calling**.

 

Falling asleep with his phone next to his damn skull was probably one of the worst things he’s ever done in his life. The second the thing went off his magic flared to life, his hand shooting out from underneath where it had been trapped under his torso and flinging the thing across the room in a blaze of red light.

The piece of trash shut up a soon as it hit the surface, but whether it was because it was broken or whoever the fuck was on the other end gave up, he didn’t care. Sighing a chest full of air into his mattress, Sans closes his eye again, sleep easily creeping up and taking him in it’s previously slackened grip.

Then it comes back to him, that ring tone, and nothing stops him from jolting awake immediately.

That was _your_ ringtone, some piano medley he’d found in the default tone section of the phone, that he’d been surprised to find to begin with. Alphys had made the phones after all. Half the shit in there was some weeboo crap from the internet, the rest was mechanical and basic. Maybe the piano bit was from some other show she watched, but it fit you enough that he automatically went with it.

Never mind that he’d bothered to pick a tone for you that was different from the default the others, all but Paps, were stuck with, That isn’t important.

What’s important is that you tried to call him so freaking early in the morning!

Rolling out of bed, Sans walks over to the thing with his bed sheet clinging to one of his exposed patellas, and he doesn’t stop to kick it off. Scooping the phone, he sees that the thing hasn’t even suffered a dent, and the time reads 4:09 when he turns it on. There it is, your missed call in the log. You hung up? Why’d you hang up? Why call before dawn and then hang up on him?

_“I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU, EBOTT!”_

_shit, undyne!_ What if she showed up in the middle of the night and you were trying to call for help? You hate early mornings too much and know he’d be asleep, why else would you be up, let alone trying to contact him?

Sweat exploding on his skull, Sans frantically taps the call back option, cursing under his breath when the **calling…** notification appears but you don’t immediately

“ _Sans?_ ”

 

“ _pol, what’s happening, you okay_ ?” Sans shout causes you to flinch away from the receiver. Why does he sound so worried? “ _is someone there?_ ”

Someone here? “Sans-?”

You stand from your bed in shock when the smell of petrichor fills your nose, and where once there was empty space next to your dresser, Sans stands. His eye lights lock onto your figure right away, and you take in his ruffled state: bare feet! uncovered arms! a wrinkled t-shirt that’s snagged on his floating ribs and displaying more of his rib cage then you’ve ever seen previously! You would be ecstatic if it weren’t for the worry etched across his skull, his free hand clenching, and his red eyes sputtering with magic.

“Sans,” you ask breathlessly, dropping your hand still holding your phone to your side, and of the teas fathered previously in your eyes one falls loose, sliding down your cheek to the edges of your chin.

“pol,” Sans jumps in place, his own cell clattering to the ground, and the few inches of nothing separating you previously vanish in an instant, his hands going up to clutch your shoulders and peer entreatingly into your eyes.

“ _where is she_ ,” his skull whips to the side, and back to you. “ _she been in here? she outside_ ,” he zeroes in on the window on the wall.

“Sans, what, who are you speaking of?”

“ _undyne_ ,” he nearly spits out, teeth gritting, and when you blink curiously at what he means-- Undyne? Here? “un-undyne? fish freak? she--you called ‘n hung up, i, i thought…” His voice trails off, and comprehension clicks in your sleep addled brain.

He thought you called because you were in danger. You could see it, your desperate attempt at calling the only person you are sure could help you, and your attempt being cut off by her intervention. It had all been an accident, but Sans didn’t know that, and he had come so quickly…

“Undyne isn’t here.”

“then why, why the heck did you call, why’d you hang up,” he asks, his bewilderment beginning to mingle with anger. You don’t take it to heart, the fear you think you still spy in his expression telling you everything: he’d been so scared at the thought of you being in danger, and now you’ve embarrassed him, and that anger at your absent attacker, it’s difficult to control when he’s so confused.

“why’re you cryin?”

“I,” you try, and start again after wiping at your eye, “I had a nightmare. I woke up, and called you on accident, Sans. I’m sorry.”

“...you.” His expression stills, the red hot anger from before melting away. “you had a nightmare.”

You nod, a blush of embarrassment taking hold, and you glance away in a moment of weakness. “I have them, sometimes.”

“...cause of what happened.

You make a noise of affirmation in your throat, nodding again in case he doesn’t hear it, and the silence stretches out.

 

Sans has nightmares, just a fact of life.

He goes whole days where he can’t sleep because of them. Paps calls him a lazy bones, Undyne’d complained back in the Underground whenever she caught him sleeping at his post, but sometimes he just couldn’t help himself.

‘Spite his reputation he’s a pretty light sleeper, the stuff he’s been through down there on top of the usual stuff keeping him on his toes during all hours of the day and night. Figures whenever he actually can catch a wink that it’d be plagued with all the stuff he was trying to avoid and couldn’t.

Paps being dusted. Their dad dying. His brother telling him what kind of disappointment he was. That kid, always that freaking kid, grinning red and merciless in the Judgement Hall.

Since running into Undyne with you awhile ago, you’d helped contribute without even knowing it. You, skewered through with a trident. You, screaming in some box underground. You, deciding one day he just isn’t worth your time.

Every one of them leaves him shaken up afterwards. He could have them all a thousand damn times, and in the case of all the ones before he met you, maybe he has. He’s woken up to his room trashed more than once. No point in cleaning up a mess that would just keep happening. All of his walls would fall, and he’d always be left feeling like the weakest, most exposed person in the underground.

And here you are, looking less done up then he’s seen you since meeting you. Even when you’d had a panic attack outside that cafe you’d kept your distance. But now you can’t even meet his eyes.

Hair messed up, sleeping pants untied, rings under your eyes. You don’t know how freaking pretty you still look do you?

“i have um, too,” he admits, and at last you give in, looking up with guilt clinging to your irises. He scratches his skull, feeling awkward. This isn’t something he talks about with people, not anymore. He stopped doing it for Paps years ago, and confessions like this aren’t the norm where he comes from.

...although everyone from down there probably have them, to be honest.

“nightmares,” he clarifies pointlessly. “if you ever wanna talk...or hang out after…”

He has to do this, because he didn’t get it himself, still doesn’t, and you...he’s starting to feel like he owes you something with all the time you’ve put up with him.

And maybe there’s a selfish part of him that thinks you’ll accept his offer.

“Sans,” you speak up, and he tenses in anticipation with the weak attempt at smiling that appears on your face. “Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

Sans feels his shoulders slump, his hands falling from your shoulders after all this time, and he shrugs lightly. “uh, cool.”

He watches you as you sit down on your bed, scooting over to leave room for him next to one of your rumpled pillows, and he sits down heavily. He shoves his hands into his shorts’ pockets, and spies at your quiet expression in the corner of his eyes, waiting for you to talk first. He didn’t know what to say to fill the void, but luckily he didn’t have to wait for things to get weird before you spoke up.

“I wake up sometimes and it’s still on my hands,” you say, and he raises a brow bone, trying to get what you're saying as you hold you look at your palms. “When she did it, I tried to stop the blood flow to keep her from dying. I tried scrubbing it away for hours afterwards but I still see it.”

Sans’ hands twitch where they’re hidden away as they shape into fists. What you’re saying sounds too familiar.

“I worry that maybe I strangled her trying to keep it in.”

Sans’ eyes shoot back to your face at this, his bones loosening in surprise, and move slowly back to his lap.

He saw the kid, Frisk, standing in the Judgement Hall, and they weren’t holding that ridiculous stick they’d been hanging onto since the beginning. They had a wicked looking kitchen knife, something made for cutting through meat, but it’s the smile they were wearing that made him shiver.

_“hey, we were pals once. what say you drop that knife of yours and we can end this nice and quick? didn’t you say some shit about friendship and love? what the hell does what you did have to do with that?”_

But the kid just smiled, and what followed isn’t nice and quick. It went on and on and on and he hears it now. His finger bones digging into their neck, rage snapping their spine like a twig. He thought maybe if he kills them enough they’ll give up, but Sans was so damn tired, and when Frisk is determined nothing will stop them.

When he woke in his bed again after all of that, the timeline reset, his bro yelling at him to go to work...he couldn’t feel gratitude, he could only scream.

Buy you, you think you killed your best friend while trying to keep them alive? He _knows_ what it’s like to kill someone for love, and what you did is _nothing_ like that.

“I…” you speak, snatching back his attention, and when you speak again your voice is tighter, a cord tuned until it’s ready to break from the strain. “I know I can’t control the circumstances of my birth, but If it hadn’t been for me, she never would have been taken.”

“you're right, you can’t control that shit,” Sans agrees, you turning to look up at him with his response, but not wavering at the tone of his response, and he does his best to bring his eye lights back from the dark to meet your gaze. “some of us don’t ask to be made, let alone get stuck in a situation like that that you didn’t have any say in. but...i know what you mean.”

He removes his hands, examining the spaces between his finger bones, thinking maybe if he squints he can see some of the kid’s blood still there.

A timeline when the kid got too sick and tired of being killed over and over, and they gave in to killing themselves. Thinkin’ maybe they’d find something that would make all the difference.

All Sans had seen was the dust of his people, and his brother mingled with the snow. What did it matter at that point if he challenged the kid over, and over, and over, and died?

It’s what he deserved, he thinks. For not making things right to begin with.

“i did things i’m not proud of. nothing i did meant anything in the end,” he says, and as questioning as the gleam is in your eyes, you don’t ask the question out loud. He’s glad about this, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to explain himself to you.

“but you look like a freaking saint compared to me, pol,” he glances at your lap, seeing your hands holding each other until your knuckles change color from the strain.

“those hands of yours ain’t capable of taking a life.”

“You say that. But yours,” your voice is soft, as soft as the shoulder you press to his arm, your head leaning against the fabric of his T-shirt, and a hand reaching out to take one of his own. “They help remind me that I’m alive.”

 

Your thumb rubs across his own and Sans lets his hand relax, his fingers closing between your own, and fitting snugly against your skin.

Maybe it’s the low light of the room, but when his eyes slide across the contours of your face, your eyelids closing gently, he thinks he thinks maybe with you he could do something right for a change.

The light has returned when you wake again.

It’s late morning, you can tell that much by the color of light that floods across the wall opposite of your bed, and the sounds of life outside your apartment, but what you don’t understand is why you're facing your closet door.

There’s a tightness around your ribcage from where you’re lying on your side, a position you rarely find yourself waking up in without back support...which leads you to noticing the pressure against your spine.

It’s large, and curving, something pressing against the back of your legs, although they themselves aren't bent, and the rustle of something stirring your hair. Done with wondering about this strange experience by feeling alone, your eyes find themselves traveling down until you lift one arm to see the presence of a pair of bony arms wrapped firmly around your person.

Bony, because they lack skin or muscle to cover them.

“Sans?”

There’s a huff of air against the back of your head, and you almost think that he’s woken, but when no yell of indignation follows, it appears that this isn’t so.

Sans’ grip on you is weakened by his unconscious state, and it doesn’t take much urging for you move into sitting position, but the moment you stop your gentle coaxing of your release, his arms tighten, his head shoving itself into your lap before he settles again.

For fear of waking him, you resist the temptation to run your fingers along his facial features, but you can’t help the laugh that the sight of him elicits from you.

He’s normally restrained. Whether he laughs or yells, you still worry that he’s holding so much of himself back. And maybe he is, it is not as though you’ve known each other for very long, have you?

But in a moment like this, with his features slackened by slumber, free of guilt, worry, or frustration, you take a moment to again appreciate how beautiful he really is.

Until a loud banging rips you from your day dreaming and you're sent falling to the floor.

 _“wha-_ what the fuck? pol? _”_

You would be delighted at the sound of Sans typically deep voice being made rougher by the tendrils of sleep that still cling to it, but currently you’re on your bedroom floor, clutching at the back of your skull with a hiss of pain escaping through your teeth.

You glimpse through your narrowed vision Sans leaning over the bed, one hand held in the air as if to grab you, and confusion racing across his skull as he gets a look around the room.

“why the hell am i here?” He asks frantically, and his skull begins to color as he takes it all in: him, in your bed. You, wearing nothing but night clothes, and with him looking no different.

The banging on the door comes back, and you think you hear the sound of your name being called before you phone begins to ring in earnest.

Sitting up with one hand still on your head, you manage to climb onto your feet and grope for it on the bedspread next to the sweating skeleton. You’re worried that he’s starting to get ideas, and can already discern the taste of rain in the air when you answer you phone without bothering to check the caller ID.

“He-.”

_“Pol-star! What are you doing up so early?”_

“Dad,” you stutter out in surprise, dropping your hand and staring wide eyed at your guest, who has cocked his skull slightly into the air. If you concentrate, you think you can hear your dad outside, and knowing that, Sans has to be hearing it, too.

“does he seriously call you that,” he asks, mildly horrified, and your laugh, the reassuring smile you try to give as weak as it sounds.

He always has.

 _“I’m proud of you! I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d check in,”_ you dad goes on, despite your lack of response. But he’s always been good at filling the silence, it’s one of the reasons why your father fell in love with him. Never mind that all of his usual routes go nowhere near the apartment, making it a perfect getaway home. _“Why don’t you let your dear old dad in and we can catch up?”_

“I-,” you start, and then catch Sans’ returned panic. Dear old dad, he takes in those words and looks between you and him. What you’re wearing, your current unkempt state, and you move before he can run.

Or, try to. Only when Sans starts teleporting away you dive for his midsection, and you’re brought along for the ride.

The world tips on it’s axis, darkness rises up, engulfs you fully, and falls back down again. Down, as you and Sans fall in a crumpled heap somewhere different.

Somewhere that smells like mustard and that’s cloaked in shadows, that's soft even where you aren't touching Sans, and faintly smells of burning food.

“SANS! GET UP BEFORE ALL MY EFFORTS IN MAKING YOU A FULFILLING AND NUTRITIOUS BREAKFAST GO TO WASTE!”

Sans groans from underneath you, dropping his skull against his bed, and falling silent.

_“Pol? Is that a fire alarm?”_

“Sorry, dad,” you reply, relief clashing with impending guilt even with all the false-cheer you try to muster into your tone. “Apologies, but I’m not home. Perhaps another time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Punny_Fan, I'm sorry for basically tossing your comment out the window on accident...but thank you all the same! It remains still, in my heart...even if my mistake led it to no longer being here...


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skele bro kitchen inspo: https://www.google.com/search?q=small+apartment&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS749US749&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjli43wn-XVAhUE3IMKHevgCwcQ_AUICigB&biw=1366&bih=700#imgrc=Suis_iphXNCRpM:
> 
> snas ref. used for this chapter: http://treacherousthoughts.tumblr.com/post/159239690981 and  
> http://treacherousthoughts.tumblr.com/post/156995231041  
> lux has the best tol!sans art, i swear.

Skeletons, by design, are inflexible. As the supporting structure of a great deal of living organisms, bone is typically immalleable, and although capable of becoming brittle or strengthening depending on how one’s health is regulated, the stiffening of bone is not something that typically happens instantaneously.

“Sans, are we in your room?”

And yet Sans continues to surprise.

It’s dark here, wherever here is for the two of you. But it’s fairly easy to guess that you’re not only laying haphazardly on your friend, but also someone’s bed. The remainder of the room is a mystery, on the other hand, but you can guess from Papyrus’ calling out that your guess is as good as it can get.

“I can’t see a thing,” you mutter out loud, bracing yourself against, the, oh, that’s an edge. Against the edge of the mattress and pushing yourself up to where you're on your hands and knees, a length of spine beneath you, just below Sans’ floating ribs.  “This isn’t fair.”

“wha-what do you expect? you tryin’ to stick your face into my stuff?” He sounds irritably defensive, but yo uthink perhaps you would be the same in his position...both literally and figuratively. You are in probably the most private part of his home, on his most personal piece of furniture. Had your attack on his person been any different, even the position that you have taken on him could have been invasive. That he hasn’t flung you off of him entirely is a miracle, one for which you’re grateful.

Falling off a bed twice in the space of a scant five minutes does not sound appealing right now.

“Of course I would want to,” you admit quite freely, speaking on despite his indignant sputtering. “This is the perfect chance at finding out more about one of my favorite people in the world. Why would I not?”

Sans makes a coughing noise that draws your eyes where you think his head could be. At least, his upper half, and the bed shifts as he moves. His voice sounding a tad closer than it was previously, he seems even more flustered now with his reply: “y-you’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

You’re not entirely sure on what he means by that. Is he calling you a creep? You suppose that this is probably true, your actions could certainly be taken the wrong way...

“Have you come to expect anything different?”

Sans makes a noise, but doesn’t argue. “whatever, you need to get out of here _now_. i’m takin’ you back before paps knows you’re in here.”

You blink, about to open your mouth to try and talk him down, but then stop yourself. Alone with Sans in his bedroom and hardly wearing the right attire for a daytime rendezvous? How could anyone not draw conclusions about this situation?

“As much as I want to see your brother again, that’s probably best,” you admit, moving yourself to where you’re only on your knees, and a placing a hand on his chest, his ribcage stuttering under your touch. The cough and now this? You failed to notice anything the night previous, but has he come down with something?

“j-just hang on-.” a hand cups your shoulder, and already you can smell it, ozone gathering anew in the air around you.

“Hey, asshole!”

A thud snaps your eyes away from Sans and into the darkness, a flair of light erupting across your vision and causing you to wince immediately.

But the one to burst into the room doesn’t blink, her singular yellow eye widening comically at the sight before her. The sight that is your person hovering over Sans’ chest, one hand against his barely clothed sternum, and hair an unkempt mess. Sans’ skull is turned towards her, and a plethora of red, glimmering drops of magic is covering his face: a result of your current situation, or left over from waking up in your bedroom, you really aren’t sure.

But what you are certain of is the flat line of Undyne’s mouth twisting into a snarl, and the grip she has on the door knob hardening to the point of breaking something from within it’s metal compartment.

“ _You_.” She spits, and you nearly flinch at the venom in that one word. But she isn’t looking at you.

“ _You’re sleeping with them?_ ”

Ah, there it is. The assumption you had been trying to avoid.

Sans _acts_.

Your body moves without your consent, and your against the window that’s apparently next to the bed, and Sans is between you and the other monster in the room. Standing fully, he seems to be growing with each inhalation, and you spy for a moment the clenching of his fists by his sides. The ones that he normally keeps hidden and would be so telling of his current mood, if his own voice wasn’t giving everything away.

“ _you ain’t laying a finger on them._ ”

“What, like you have been this whole time apparently,” Undyne bites back, and you at once feel the need to speak up on Sans’ behalf.

“It’s a misunderstanding-!”

“quiet, pol!”

This time you really do flinch.

“ _Be quiet, Polaris!_ ”

A breath escapes your lips, Sans’ head turning to see until Undyne stops him: “Back off, skullface. I’m not here to touch your precious human.” You can practically hear her eye rolling, although Sans’ girth is blocking you from seeing if you’re correct.

“that last confrontation we had says otherwise, fishfreak!”

“That’s in the past, don’t get your patella in a twist.”

“doubt you know what that is-.”

“Shut up,” she snaps with force, and something breaks, Sans’ doorknob finally giving in as part of it falls to the floor. “I’m here for Papyrus and I thought I’d be nice and stop by to tell you that I’m not going to rip Ebott in half.”

“...if you’re trying to pull somethin’-”

“As much as I would love the experience of darkening the floor with the blood of one of those bastards that stuck us in the _dirt_ , I’ve got news from the top to lay off.”

Sans’ demeanor weakens, and you feel your eyebrows knit together in shared confusion. From the top? Given your knowledge of monster hierarchy, and Undyne’s former employment in general, that could only mean one person-.

“tha heck asgore-?”

 

“The queen,” she cuts him off.

Your eyes blow wide. _The queen?_ Frisk’s mother? It’s true that she would be the only other individual to consider, but admittedly you were thinking of Asgore at the same time that Sans had been.

“what’s tori want with pol?” Sans asks this and his composure loosens more, but he’s still on guard. Between you and Undyne, Sans hasn’t moved an inch, but his question is incredibly telling.

 _Tori?_ You know Sans babysits for the queen, so it wouldn’t be absurd for the two of them to know each other fairly well. You could tell that Frisk and Sans are close, so that must lead to him having some sort of history with the queen. Even before Frisk’s fall to the Underground, it’s possible that they were companions.

_Queens, kings, royal guardsman. Grandmother said the family name would lead to me knowing people in high places. But like this? It’s more like a fairy tale, annd I feel like a character that’s abruptly been introduced mid-act._

“Queenie said Frisky is friends with your human,” Undyne says dryly. “Don’t know when those two got the chance to meet, but as far as she’s concerned, no one lays a finger on Ebott.”

“tch, how’s that stoppin’ you from finishin’ that right now? kill or be killed, ain’t that what they taught in the guard?”

“Whatever, you’re not the one I’m answering to-!”

“like you’re answerin’ to king asgore, eh? cuz last time i heard, the freaking guard was thrown in the trash-!”

“BROTHER!”

Sans’ challenge is interrupted as it starts, and you take the chance to prop yourself up against Sans and lean around him. Sans arm goes up against your waist automatically, his eyes flitting to you temporarily when Papyrus appears from behind Undyne.

“ENOUGH WITH ALL OF THIS RIDICULOUS TOMFOOLERY, THE MEAL IS GROWING COLD!”

“pa-paps,” Sans tries, and you grip his arm in silent support. Was he trying to make excuses for your presence? Was it his comment about the guard? Whatever the case may be, Papyrus’ sharp toothed mouth is bent into a frown and you can tell Sans doesn’t like it.

The floor is chilled underfoot when you stand up from the bed, more than five eyes swiveling to meet your movement in the room , and you can barely feel the missed catch of Sans’ finger tips on your shirt before they fall away.

“Papyrus, is good to see you again! Would it be a bother if I joined you all for your morning meal?”

“WHY WOULD YOU PRESUME TO THINK THAT?” He asks with the raise of one socket and the narrow of the other. “IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING THAT I WASN’T AWARE OF YOUR PRESENCE IN MY HOUSEHOLD TO BEGIN WITH.”

“That would be entirely my fault, I’m afraid,” you say. Sans curses quietly behind, entirely in the belief more than likely that you’re going to give up the goose on his late night visit.

But that’s not at all your intention.

“I asked Sans for a favor, a rather selfish request given the hour, but I was at a loss,” you confess, knowing your debt to your friend has grown ever wider. “He came to my aid immediately to help in my time of need and then sought to return as soon as it was done. But given my clumsy disposition I’m afraid that I had a fall, and as he was leaving I was brought along for the ride.”

Hopefully Papyrus would not parse your excuse to closely, but you were honest, although some details were left out. Suc has when exactly Sans had visited, and that he was held back much longer than a mere few minutes.

But you don’t want to see Papyrus angry, let alone at his brother, when it’s entirely your fault to begin with that this whole conundrum ever came about.

_I’m sorry, Papyrus, for the deception. But I’ve caused enough trouble for Sans._

Your worry goes unneeded, as Papyrus’ eye sockets land on his brother in unconcealed disbelief. “MY SLOTH OF A BROTHER ACTUALLY PULLED HIMSELF OUT OF BED TO HELP SOMEONE IN NEED? I’M NOTHING SHORT OF SKEPTICAL BUT GIVEN HIS ATTITUDE THAT CAN HARDLY BE MISUNDERSTOOD.”

“Whatever the case is of the matter, I must admit there is no chance that you could have missed my entrance otherwise,” you say smoothly, yet with honesty again. With the way Papyrus reacts, he seems to have the senses of a hawk, but how can you think anything less after so many years of training to guard the king and his people? But if anything if it will lessen his current upset towards his brother...you should do nothing less but tell the truth.

“I’m grateful for Sans’ help, and I am sorry for intruding.” A glance back to Sans and you catch his eyes, belaying the sincerity in your confession.

His eye lights dance between you and Papyrus, but he doesn’t speak up, appearing to be positively baffled with the situation but you say nothing to explain yourself.

“Very well…” Papyrus speaks for you, and in more characteristic manner, “I SET THE TABLE WHEN I HEARD UNDYNE’S YELLING. BUT NEXT TIME ACT AS A CIVILIZED ADULT AND USE THE FRONT DOOR. I CAN HARDLY KEEP ANYONE UNDER MY EMPLOY THAT CAN’T KEEP THEIR WITS ABOUT THEM.”

With this Papyrus sweeps out of the doorway in a flourish, Undyne eyeing his retreat with a mocking smile. “You got out of that one easy, Ebott. But don’t think I’m not keeping my eye on you,” she says with a cackle, and finally departs.

One eye or no, you’re certain that it would be impossible to escape from her if she had a mind to chase after you again. If it weren’t for Sans previously, you may not be standing here now...

“I think that went well,” you try for a smile, turning back to your companion, where he stands statue like. A deep huff blows out between his teeth like steam, and Sans sinks to a sit on his bed, his hands going up to cover his face.

“freaking stars…”

Your smile falters for a beat, but you manage to keep it up by a hair.

“I’m sorry, Sans.”

“why’d you have to go n’ grab onto me like that?” He sounds tired, but it would be a no wonder if he really is.

“I..I didn’t want you to leave.” You have to resist the urge to look away when he uncovers his vision, weakness seeping into your words with the fall of your lips. “It’s been some time since we’ve been together. I’ve missed you, and I’m afraid I acted without thinking.”

It’s silent at first. Then, Sans lets out a breath in the form of a sentence, “pol..you ain’t gotta apologize. I uh…” you hear the tapping of his finger bones against the metal frame of his bed, entirely unprotected by a sheet or blanket. It’s only now that you’re noticing how unkempt it appears, but you’re too focused on what he’s trying to say to read into it.

“...yeah.”

Whatever it is lingers in the air, and you don’t address its presence. Acting boldly, you step forward, pressing your chest against his skull as you hold it against you with both arms, hands slipping behind his neck. “Thank you, again.”

Sans doesn’t say anything to this, but neither does he pull away, his eyes soft and wary when his arms go up to meet behind your back. “gotta tone it down with all this touchin’ stuff.”

“Okay,” you chuckle gently, utterly enjoying yourself, and fooling yourself into thinking that he is as well when he doesn’t immediately move away again.

His brow bone raises gently, eye lights flickering to your chest, and you're not imagining it when they expand ever so much. “s’at-?”

“Hm?”

“...nevermind,” Sans rumbles, and the moment fades, the skeleton moving to his feet again, taking your arms into his hands as he rises. “lets get this over with.”

His cheeks are tinged in red. Was it the hug you gave him, or something else, the question at the very end that went unasked?

Sans lets go of you and moves to leave the room, your steps following after him with the sneakiest of glances back into his room.

A single bed by the covered window in the center of the opposite wall. A desk with a quiet computer. A treadmill draped in clothing, and a floor cluttered with even more, alongside various unidentifiable bits of trash. Lastly there is the darkness, clinging to every surface like smeared ink.

In nearly every way it is the polar opposite of your own, save for the bed, where the sheets are left unmade, a blanket strewn to the floor, and the pillows a crumpled mess.

_“i have um too...nightmares.”_

 

The brother’s home you discover is an apartment located on the fringe of Ebott City and Ebotton, the residential area of the city that’s mostly made up of family homes, parks, and small businesses. The farther in that one goes to the city, the less inclined people are to monsterkind, and thus a majority of their population have found their residences in apartments such as this one, or lower rent abodes. Anyone who tried for higher establishments were often denied or lost those residences due to vandalism and the like.

Theirs you have some idea must have once been a sort of office space. The doors of both bedrooms are opposite of one another, the short hall between them leading into the living room. When you step onto the tiled surface of the floor, to your left is a white, brick wall. A short line of black counter space complete with sink, stove, and dishwasher sit under a high ceiling, a series of shelving thrown together with painted plywood drilled into the wall above them. A rectangular dining table sits next to the wall with several large windows, the chairs under it mismatched but giving further personality to the space. Outside is a view of a short balcony with concrete flooring and a curving wrought iron railing, plants in various pots, each with a tiny sign shoved into their soil. From what you can see, at east one reads "basil" and another "thyme".

Separating the kitchen from the main public area and the hall leading to the bedrooms is a wall of glass windows embedded in thin, wooden frames, it’s paint flaking with age, and a door is kept propped open by a pair old work boots. The floor is made of small, white tiles that may have once fit perfectly together, but some have become chipped or cracked with ages, one or two moving in place when you step onto them. The living room's is all wood, blackened with hundreds of scuff marks and shoe prints from people you may never know the names of.

Undyne is already at the dining room table in the chair closest to Papyrus, one arm on the surface of the table while the other rests on the back of her chair, the blue scaled monster talking freely with her friend in the most amiable show of character that you’ve seen her in yet. Papyrus himself is at the stove, flipping what looks to be an oversized flap jack in an iron skillet, and Sans picks the chair opposite of Undyne.

On the way to sitting in your own, the one next to Sans elbow, you glance into the living room.

An old couch sits facing a flat screen TV that sits on a short entertainment center, and a door that must be the exit is pressed into the far wall perpendicular of the one with the TV. A series of book shelves can actually be seen against one of the walls, most of them appearing to be thick, heavy things. More like to be textbooks than typical reading material.

Who did those belong to? Sans? Papyrus? Considering it now, there’s still very much of the brothers that you aren’t knowledgeable about…

“Gotta say, Ebott. It’s pretty amazing that you didn’t brown your slacks when you ran into Asgore the other day.”

Sans startles out of the half-doze he’s fallen into, eyes shooting to you at once: “say _what_? you spoke to freakin’ asgore?”

“Yeah,” Undyne smirks, teeth full to the brim with hypothetical feathers, and Sans eyes you up and down, as if some damage from the meeting still remains on your person to be found. “Was there when it happened! It was at some museum or whatever in the city when they ran into each other. Man, gotta say when he said he’d eat cha’ for touching Frisk I quaked in my boots a little bit, ha!”

“what.”

Sans’ lights have been extinguished by the darkness of his skull and worry spikes in your gut with the deepening of his already husky voice. Reaching under the table, you feel for the one hand in his lap, Sans’ flinching with the contact, but it’s enough for his pupils to resurface.

They’re dim, but the flicker to yours with a sharpness that you wish you knew how to soften back down to how they were previously in his bedroom when he held you in his arms.

“Asgore expressed his concerns for Frisk’s safety when we met,” you say, leaning into a hand while speaking to Sans with a calm smile, your posture not giving away at all for what reassurance you try to give your friend in secret. Sans’ grip on your fingers tighten, and you rub your thumb across his knuckles.

“threaten’ to eat ya is a lot more then _expressing his concerns_ _for his kid_ , _pol!_ ”

“SANS! NO YELLING AT THE TABLE!”

Sans narrows his eyes at his brother but he’s the first to give in between their staring match, his reluctance from earlier returning as his brother turns back to his cooking, but not without a sigh.

“Given the history between my family and his own, I do not fault him for being wry of my meeting his child,” you continue despite the incredulity you receive in response. “Asgore was there when it happened, when the war occured and your people were trapped underground. That sort of thing doesn’t fade with time from the mind of someone with his experience. I’ll admit that he did frighten me, he is a rather intimidating fellow.”

“Ha, you have no idea, punk!” Undyne hooks a thumb at her chest, her brightening eye and grin combination commanding attention. “He never pulled any punches, and I was just a kid when he taught me how to fight!”

“You fought with the king?”

“Yeah, tried to take him out the moment we first met,” she says, still smirking. “I was a little shit, thought if I could take on Asgore I could take on anyone! So much for _that_ , he took me out in one go!” Her fists pound the table, shaking the salt and pepper shakers on it’s surface and causing Papyrus to pause in sitting down a platter of steaming flapjacks in the center. “Big guy thought I was pretty brave putting on a show, so he decided to train me himself!”

Glee bursts in your chest at the image that shoves its way into your mind: a tiny, spit fire Undyne, barely reaching Asgore’s knee in height, but believing for all the world that not even he could stop her. And to think that he swore to make her stronger himself, afterwards!  

“That’s adorable!”

“A-adorable?” You never thought that you would hear Undyne stutter, but today seems to be the sort for many firsts, eating at a table with her being one of many you hope. “ _Fa_ hahaha! Seriously? You think that kind of stuff is adorable? You sound like my girlfriend, she always gets worked up over fluff like that!”

“You have a girlfriend,” you ask, definitely curious, and Papyrus as last joins you at the table: “YOU BETTER NOT COVER YOUR MEAL IN THAT DISGUSTING YELLOW PASTE YOU SO ENJOY, SANS! I WORKED HARD ON YOUR BREAKFAST, SO EAT IT PROPERLY!”

Sans grumbles but doesn't argue, opting for smothering his own stolen share from the rather large offering on the table, and pouring an absurd amount of syrup on top of his plate instead. He hands you the bottle after, phalanges brushing against your skin, and digs in with a gusto after you say your thanks, avoiding your line of sight.

 _What has him distracted_ , you can’t help but wonder.

 

That one question and it’s all Undyne needs to not shut up about Alphys. It’s Alphys this, Alphys that, but Sans can’t understand how they’d gotten to this situation to begin with! Wasn’t she trying to kill you a few weeks ago? What happened to _that_?

 _tori must be interested in slick if she’s callin’ shots on what happens to um,_ Sans figures, watching you from the corner of his eye. Why do you have to be so interested in what water on the brain has to say? Do you even have a sense of self preservation or did that die with the evolution of your species, considering how much Frisk acts the same way?

You had to remove your hands to start eating, and he has nothing left to distract him with. And with Paps as the table after what he said in his bedroom, Sans is anything but comfortable.

Did he hear him when he said what he did about the guard? He knows how his brother feels about stuff, why’d he have to go and say it within shouting distance? Sure, it probably would have ended in a scuffle in the house, but at least she’d be more interested in shattering his skull then killing you right off.

_least we don’t have to worry about that, anymore. i guess._

Because whatever Tori wants, the king officiates. It’s not a secret that their marriage fell apart with the death of their kid, the queen disappearing to who knows where for the longest time til the barrier fell, but there’s still somethin’ going on there. He’d spent enough time around Toriel and fucking around in the timelines to know something’s up. Although...he really doesn’t care enough to look into it much more than that. Other people’s relationships weren't his business, and Tori doesn’t like the king to be brought up anyhow.

And you don’t cross a lady with that kinda red in her eyes.

But you ran into the king? Seriously? Why didn’t you tell him about that-? It had to have happened while the two of you were busy with your own stuff and Asgore was actually in town, but he wasn’t here _that_ long.

Don’t you keep your nose out of your family’s crap? How’d you manage to run into the strongest member of his kind in such a tiny window of time?

Just thinking about it is exhausting...and _infuriating_ . Sans’ magic is still itching for a fight since Undyne show’d up but that _threat_ on _your_ life? He’s pissed. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he ever actually runs into the old goat again, but who knows when that’ll be.

So Sans is left sitting in his chair, simmering in a mess of bad. Regret, anger, jealousy. Fuck if he ever thought he’d ever feel that way towards _Undyne_ , but that’s all it can be when you’re leaning in a little closer to see the picture of Alphys on her phone and you’re all smiles towards her instead.

This isn’t what he wanted after not seeing you for so long.

Part way through the meal Paps and Undyne get it in their heads to start a competition over who can eat the most out of the remainder of the food with you playing as judge when you speak to him: “Sans, I know we planned to meet Friday originally, but do you mind if we spend time together today before your shift at Grillby’s?”

Both Undyne and Papyrus stop in the middle of shoving grub into their faces to stare, but you’re waiting expectedly and he can’t just leave you hanging when your eyes are like that. Just. Looking at him. Basically paying attention to him in general.

“y-yeah. Sure.”

“Wonderful!” Aw, stars, do you have to blush like that? Now he’s going to go reading into it-.

“MY BROTHER? MAKING PLANS? I SEE THAT MY PREVIOUS ASSESSMENT OF YOUR PERSON IS FURTHER BEING PROVED CORRECT,” Paps speaks up, and Sans remembers his bro’s talk in your kitchen a while back about what’s going on between you and him. He still thinks it’s weird that you guys get along so well, but it’s definitely preferable to the alternative.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” Undyne mumbles, chewing with her mouth open until the last of her bite is cleared. “I was wondering why I saw you two together to begin with the other day. Does this mean you guys are a-!”

He really doesn’t like that look on her face.

Giving into the urge that’s been plaguing him since leaving his bedroom, Sans shoots up from his chair, and grabs onto your shoulder, taking you out of your own and practically dragging you from the room: “alrightthat’senough, we’reout!”

“Thank you, Papyrus for the meal, it was wonderful,” you take the time to call back to his brother, because Sans wouldn’t expect anything. It’s when you hang onto the doorway separating the living room from the kitchen with a smile that he sighs. “It was nice to see you again, Undyne, especially on such amicable terms!”

“See ya, you freaking cinnamon roll.”

_tha hell does she mean by that? that better not be alluding back to that eating you crap she mentioned earlier!_

Sans starts to head back to the kitchen to ask for himself, but your curious expression stops him. “Sans?”

“uh, nothin’. thought i forgot something for a sec.”

He couldn’t do anything about Undyne while you’re here.

_but there’s always later._

 

“damnit.” You hum a question at his expletive, seeing the irritation on his skull. “forgot to change.”

After leaving the kitchen rather than walk back to your home, Sans had chosen the easy route of teleportation. It’s nothing you’ll ever complain about, tagging along for the ride is always an absolutely thrilling experience, and it certainly does save on time. But he’s right, Sans is still wearing his sleeping clothes from the night previous.

Waving off his concern, you offer a proposal: “You still seem tired, why not nap for the remainder of the day until your shift?”

“uh, didn’t you want to hang out, or something?”

“We can still do that here,” you say, waving at your living room although technically meaning your home in general. “Being in each other's presence is enough, and I’ll admit it was earlier than I’m used to as well. Besides, I thought perhaps you would want some time away from Undyne, in case she was spending her own day there with your brother.”

Surprise dawns on your friends face, and Sans’ scratches at the back of his skull with one hand, his eyes jumping away from you with your admission: “went and read me like a book, didn’t ya. kay, guess i’ll take the couch..”

He steps into your living area and around the furniture, and you follow, taking the other side while Sans watches you. “ya gonna nap, too?”

“With pleasure,” you say, sitting with your back against the opposite rest as his, Sans splaying out his legs on the couch with one foot on the ground and the other pressed against it’s back. You situate yourself next to his leg, drawing your own up and propping them against the couch. A great yawn escapes you when your brush your face against it’s upholstery, one that provokes an errant tear, and Sans chuckles, sounding a little more at ease, and you hope the distance between the two is enough to keep it that way.

Although the idea to close that space is increasingly tempting…

“ya sure you can sleep like that? don’t look crazy comfortable.”

“You could say the same, perhaps I should consider moving upstairs,” you say the last part idly, a glance up towards the staircase paired with the vocalized idea, but leaving him behind doesn’t at all sound appealing. Dropping your eyes back to Sans, you see him fidgeting. “And it would give you more room to be comfortable-.”

“nah, i mean, i’m good.”

Silence descends and you take the time to close your eyes, and allow a smile to escape at this, unafraid of Sans seeing it.

But you asked Sans to spend time with him specifically away from home not just because of Undyne. You wanted to talk, and this is the time to take that chance.

_And if he decides he doesn’t like my prying, he’ll have a place to escape to. I hate the thought of cornering him into a conversation._

“I was worried about what happened earlier,” you begin, and open your eyes. Sans’ is looking at you, so you lift your head away from the couch while you talk. “In your bedroom, you looked upset after Papyrus appeared.”

“...ain’t nothin’, slick.” That’s it then. If he doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t need to, but you wish you could tell him that you’ll be here for him in the meantime. But a part of you is afraid that will only offend him, truth be told. No matter how sincere you are.

It’s quiet again, and Sans is distracted. His attention is on the other side of the room next to the fireplace and a corner, but you let it linger even as you wish there was some way of leading him to relax again.

“paps heard what i said about the guard. i shouldn’t have said that with him around.”

“He doesn’t know how you feel about his line of work?”

“no, what kind of brother would i be if i took the one dream he had from the start and ruined it for him,” Sans asks himself, narrowing his eyes at the air, and shrugging with one upturned hand. “paps always wanted to be there. he was always into that stuff about honor and chivalry and doing the right thing. but the guard became somethin’ about taking out someone before they hit you first, and why the heck would i want my baby brother wrapped up in somethin’ like that?”

“Maybe you should consider talking to him,” you say, and his eyes are back on you, the irritation failing to fade. “If Papyrus knew about your feelings towards the guard, it could help avoid any misunderstanding. Maybe if he was aware that it’s because of your concern towards him that fuels your hatred of the group-.”

“you want me to talk to paps about my feelings? are you really the person to be advising me on stuff like that when you’ve said so yourself that you’ve barely talked to your parents in years?”

That quiets you immediately.

...Sans is right, what kind of place are you in to decide what would be best for someone else’s familial relationships? It only makes you a hypocrite to actively continue going against your own advice.

“You’re correct, I’m sorry, Sans,” you speak up in time, Sans still frowning, but remarkably staying in the room, having sunk back against the arm of the couch. “Earlier, when my dad was at the door, I was relieved when we left. Guilty, but relieved.”

“...he seems pretty chipper, despite what’s goin’ on between you three.”

“That’s his nature,” you answer. “But he’s also a very physical person. And to stand in a room with him, watching as he has to fight the urge to hug me goodbye. Hello. Out of any sort of affection or remorse. It hurts, Sans. Although, I can’t decide which is worse. To make him upset over never seeing me, or to pain him with my presence.

“I know he would be happy to spend time with me, but I also know that our relationship isn’t as it should be, or as it was.”

 

There you go again, hitting the nail on the head.

It sounds so disturbingly accurate to his own relationship with Papyrus, Sans wants to run from the room and scrub your words from his Soul. That’s the kind of thing he keeps inside, where it belongs. Hearing that it’s happening to someone else, at the same time, to you who’s so utterly different from him just makes it surreal.

You're all smiles and acceptance and laughter, that didn’t stop you from pushing away your family and forgetting how to make up for it. Nah, not just forgetting, but plain not knowing how to close that gap to begin with.

Sans had wondered if he were a different person, if it would be any easier.

Maybe if he smiled more, or was more tolerant, or tried to look on the brighter side of things, he could get back what he and Paps used to have. Before everything was about kill or be killed and more about learning to live and being content. When he wanted to see the stars and Paps wanted to see the world, and even if those were both unreachable, at least they had each other.

But here you are, proving him otherwise.

“we’ve both got some serious issues.”

Sans knows you’re taking the offer of peace when you relax back into your couch, not quite grinning but making an attempt with a touch of self-deprecation thrown in. “In that you are certainly correct.”

Your eyelids close again, the skin around them softening, although he can still see the tension in your shoulders from where he’s sitting.

He swallows against the heaviness in his magic that comes with his hesitation.

“look we slept together earlier, you just wanna lay on me and call it a day?”

Your eyes fly open at once. “Sans?”

“it’ll free up space and we’ll both be comfortable. probably.” He’s all bones but he thinks you’ll fit. But who would wanna lay on somethin’ as uncomfortable as him for hours on end? Sure he knows you like hugging him, but maybe that’s the physical deprivation talking. “never mind, it was a-.”

When did you get that close? He looked away for a second, and you’re already nestling into his sternum. “uh, lemme..” Sans shifts down on the couch, and you lift yourself up, moving with him until he can prop his head on the arm of the couch, and you rest your head between his and his shoulder right away. His arms go up, folding around you, and a breath of air brushes against his neck vertebrae in what he thinks, maybe, is contentment of it’s own sort.

“you doin’ okay?”

“I’m perfect.”

“ok.”

You're so freaking soft. And warm. His Soul won’t shut up about it, and he doesn’t blame it. Stars, how is ever going to fall asleep like this?

Sans dares to bring up a hand from your waist and runs it through your hair, the sound you make at the contact is murder.

Sans keeps it up, eventually digging his phalanges through and rubbing at your scalp. Does every part of you feel this way?

He forces that thought faaaaar from his thought process right away. Now is definitely not the time. Instead he focuses on his ministrations with your hair, listening to you breathe, feeling your every curve and muscle relax into his bone.

Somewhere a clock ticks, outside a car passes, and with your pulse against his collarbone Sans loses consciousness between one beat of your heart and the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw the theme song for this story, at least this first part, is "Lover" by Truslow.  
> the link to the playlist likes to act up and i wanted you awesome someones to know about that one at least.  
> mm tired. edit later. bye for now!


	16. Chapter 16

Takes more than a crack in the door to see what’s going on inside of the bar. The usual are all here: the guard dogs at their card table, Reisi’s chosen a booth rather than the front counter to pass out in, Venis is gobbing on to Ham at the ‘box about who cares what, and the typical twosome are slumped into each other at a couple of stools nearest to the alcohol. There’s more than one other irregular, but there's a specific pair that Sans has had his eye on all night.

Why the heck would you chose  _ Grillby’s _ of all places to talk to the toaster about his freaking book? What’s there about mood lightning and public intoxication scream business to ya? 

If that’s all it is, he’s seen the way Mett’s angled his box in  _ your _ direction. Anyone could argue that the bot probably flirts with everyone, including himself, but why’s he gotta meet you in the  _ middle _ of the night? At a  _ bar? _ While he’s stuck on  _ guard duty?  _

Gritting his teeth when Mettaton waves his hands for emphasis at..hell knows what, Sans only feels himself soften up when from your spot you glance towards the door. There’s no way you can see him peeking in, not with how dark it is outside, but he likes the idea that you might be thinking of him.

Speaking of thinking of him, Grillby can definitely see him leaning inside, and Sans is not imagining the sadistic snarl the old bastard is sending his way. Snapping the door closed, Sans returns to his spot close to the entrance, and leans into the wall of the building with his sigh muffled only by the collar of his sweater.

Looks like a long night ahead. 

 

“...currently as your developmental editor it’s my duty to make sure everything makes sense but is also presented in a way that the audience will find especially appealing,” you retell Metatton the logistics of your position. “I’m also your line editor. Grammar, spelling, and word choice will be checked every step of the way. A script can have a wonderful plot, but becoming invested can be a difficulty if the language is somehow too clunky.”

“Ah, it reminds me of my days, writing all of my own scripts,” the monster across from you sighs, a wistful cord playing on his harmonics. “None too many drafts, you see. When I write, I write well, but there was always the issue of obtaining paper in a world with only so many trees to come by.”

“That is what will be your book’s main selling point,” you say, recalling all that you’ve read from Mettaton’s life.”Written by a monster, detailing the life of an actor striving for change, and reaching a level of success that meant the Underground would finally not only begin to use television en masse, but that you would be the one to present it’s very first channel! Readers will flock for the intrigue, and stay for the story.”

Mettaton titters, waving a hand as if to beg for mercy, but the many screens of his front facing panel flash colorfully. “Such a way with words, darling. And to think you haven’t written anything of your own.”

“It would never be finished. I’m afraid I would judge myself much too stringently,” you confess, leaning into your seat, and chancing a glance towards the front door. Outside Sans is standing watch, making sure any ne'er do wells do well to never enter, and it makes your skin almost itch with how close he is without you being given the chance to properly enjoy his company. 

“My friend at the house will be overseeing the production phase for marketing, and another has agreed to fill in my position as copy editor. A fresh set of eyes will make sure that not a mistake is missed,” you say. A person can overlook the same mistake a dozen times and be none the wiser until someone takes a step forward to point out something that, more often than not, has been pretty obvious the entire time. The additional help would also mean that the book would not be delayed for too long. Despite your original intention of taking it in your hands entirely, your supervisors had not been lenient on your workload.  

_ I’m also not entirely experienced in the marketing area, _ you admit privately.  _ I want this to be done properly. _

“But I am curious, Mettaton, how you ever managed to convince your friend that the king wouldn’t protest the publication,” you say with a frown, eyebrows drawing together with your returned concern. It’s been playing across your conscious for a while now, and you really can’t avoid the topic any longer.

It’s something you should have considered in retrospect, the drawn attention of the king towards Mettaton’s written work. Fit to burst or not, the Underground was a tight knit community, coming to the Surface has not changed that. Nearly every monster you’ve encountered since your video stream with the actor has labeled you as “that human”. Hotman has even waved to you from his stand, with a “morning, Ebott!” on more than one occasion. 

And the king is as always very interested in the activities of his people, of course his yellow gaze would lock onto Mettaton’s newest venture right away, but it was the phone call that worried you. Not for your own well being, but Mettaton’s himself. 

“The Doctor seemed to be hinting that he would put a stop to it immediately.” If a threat is what you can call hinting at, anyways. Whatever the case, it's not something you want to take lightly, especially when, after reading the book, you think you know exactly what Doctor Alphys was planning on forcing on the mechanical monster. 

“Oh, it’s all taken care of,” Mettaton says almost flippantly, as if it’s become nothing more than an afterthought, and your eyelids flutter at his casual attitude towards the subject. “The doctor and I spoke with his majesty in person, and everything came up peaches.”

 

“I will condone your work’s publication.”

The sharp gasp from Alphys wasn’t enough to burst the bubble of excitement that expanded in Mettaton’s hypothetical heart at the King Asgore’s blessing, and he clapped his hands together in an outward show of enthusiasm. “Thank you, your majesty! You wouldn’t believe what this means for my career!” 

Asgore doesn’t look up from his work with the flowerbed lining his private home. Located near the base of the mountain, it’s a tad secluded from Mettaton’s usual jaunt, and much more cheery of a place then anymore would guess that the monarch would reside. 

The best word for it is...humble. Nothing more then a rather grandiose cottage, the grand in that statement mostly lending itself to the fact that it had to be made particularly large to fit the king’s mighty girth,  it’s most stunning feature is the sprawling garden the long time ruler has managed to cultivate despite his frequent absence. 

Now, if only Mettaton could snap a picture! A little click, that’s all it would take, and the image of the horned king kneeling among bushels of tiny, blooming flowers that are either white, lilac, or somewhere inbetween. His hair is even tied back! What an image this would make for Mettaton’s blog!

But he knows that the king would know right away… whether Mettaton is a highly advanced specimen or not (although there can hardly be any doubt on the contrary) Asgore’s levels of perception are simply otherworldly. 

“B-but, sire,” Alphys squeaks, her clawed feet scratching against the pebbled pathway, giving away further her obvious anxiety. “M-Mettaton’s knowledge of the Underground is simply too extensive! It-it c-could take the slightest mistake the unravel ev-everything we’ve accomplished!” 

She’s practically quaking where she stands, clutching at the side of her face as she is, and Mettaton resists the ghost of a temptation to calm her nerves. But that’s all it is. A ghost.

“Of which I am aware, Doctor Alphys,” rumbles from the king’s chest, and Mettaton would swoon if he cared for a man with a bit less muscle on his bones. “As my position would entail, that is something I must be constantly aware of.”

Alphys swallows. Despite the lack of a bite that such a comment could imply, the king says it so casually, but it still leads to the desired effect. Subtle, yet powerful. Mettaton is reminded again that he could learn a thing or two from the monarch. A hundred plus years of that kind of charisma is like a fine wine, only growing better with age.

“I read Mettaton’s drafted autobiography, and there’s nothing of it’s contents that concerns me. But your interest in the well-being of our people is noted, and appreciated,” he says this directly to the royal scientist, who stutters out a nod as she fights to wring her hands: “Y-yes, King Asgore.”

“I intend on purchasing my own copy once it is finished. Anything created by our people is important to our history, and our further progression on the surface,” the king inclines his head to the actor, a motion that conveys perfectly the respect he is offering, no matter how so very much taller Asgore still is kneeling compared to other two monsters. “I would request a signature.”

“Of course, your grace!” Mettaton practically preens, bowing steadfast in a poor attempt to hide his jubilance. “First edition, hot off the printer, as soon as available!” 

“If that is all, Doctor,” King Asgore says to the scientist while turning back to his plants, and Alphys freezes for a beat before nodding. Her swirling, red lenses flash when she turns her head, eyes narrowed in Mettaton’s direction, but she steps away without comment.

“Alphys, dear, I’ll meet you in the limo in a mo,” Mettaton says with a twiddle of his fingers at her turned back, and waits for the king to speak first. 

“My meeting with the Ebott heir was fruitful,” he says, a claw with dirt under it’s nail going up to brush the underside of a blossom, a caresses as gentle as if in the handling of his own child. “But an old friend once said that with the mask oft changes with it’s audience. What impression has Polaris cultivated in you?”

“That’s the question of the hour,” Mettaton plants his hands on his square hips, confident even in the face of a king. “I’m growing rather fond of them. That kind of honesty is sort of a breath of fresh air. Not my style, but we all have our methods of coping with the madness.” He hums in his chassis, considering the human with a tilt of his body. “They have a habit of getting chummy with every monster they run into, it’s worrying, if I may be frank. What happens when they run into the wrong monster?”

 

Mettaton can see the king in his files tilting his head up, his red pupils fixated on the mountain. So close, and it seemed to dominate the sky. But from the city, it’s always looming in the distance. Like a bad memory. 

Asgore thanked him for his input, and that was that. Only coincidence led to your meeting with Mettaton at Grillby’s being that very night. 

It isn’t a location Mettaton would normally choose for a friendly get together to talk about work, but it’s reputation has preceded it, and he must admit that it has some character. The ambience is lovely, even if the crowd isn’t entirely desirable, and it has the added kick of occasionally giving him the chance to watch Sans seethe with jealousy. 

_ The more he thinks I’m stealing away time from dear Pol, the more he’ll focus on his human and less on his brother _ , Mettaton plots with a burning spark in his system.  _ Papyrus and I are overdue for a nice, long  _ **_chat_ ** _. _

You pause in raising your drink to your lips when the cell phone sitting to the side on the table lights up, and Mettaton can tell that this is somehow one of the last things you expected. “Excuse me, I…” 

Swiping at the tiny screen, your eyes flicker across the small text displayed, and delight sparks into life in your expression. “Sans’ brother is stopping by!”

“Stars, I was just thinking of mister tall, dark, and angry,” Mettaton confesses, but if a simple thought was all it took to have Papyrus stroll into the room, this would be finished by now. 

“You know one another,” you ask with interest that makes your eyes shine. So you’re close too the other brother as well? Mettaton supposes it’s sort of a requirement between the two of them...unfortunately. 

“Very little, truth be told,” Mettaton sighs. “Apparently he’s a fan of mine, but we met only briefly after the barrier fell. From there with all the hubbub surrounding military intervention and what not, it was rather difficult to have a conversation in private. And there’s Sans…”

You frown prettily, “Sans disapproves?”

“That’s an understatement,” he throws his hands up into the air. “And if Sans doesn’t like you, you aren’t going anywhere near the youngest. I swear, I’ve never met a more annoying mother hen.”

Rather than share in his disgust, the admission causes your smile to return, and a glance of your eyes past his shoulder tells him that of course you’re thinking of the big brute! How on earth does someone like you run head first into a mess like that, and with open arms, he’ll never understand. 

“Papyrus and I have something to discuss, but as long as Sans is in the picture, that could be a problem.”

“I could speak with him, and see how he feels the way he does. Perhaps he only needs to know you better.” Sweet and innocent as always, aren’t you? Mettaton will have to be careful, someone will be able to take advantage of that good nature of yours. 

“Oh, he claims he knows me rather well, but for someone who goes around claiming he’s the judge of the underground he still has a lot to learn!”

If this were a movie, he could probably see the question mark spring up above your head, but Mettaton doesn’t explain further, fuming quietly to himself. Your lips part to ask, but then hesitate, and your attention is stolen away towards the entrance once more...but a signal in Mettaton’s magical sensors tells him that the certain someone has finally arrived.

 

Papyrus hasn’t swapped his signature red scarf for anything new, but the black knit sweater he’s sporting goes well with his shadowed visage, made especially intimidating by the low low lighting. The dark jeans are a nice touch, and you wonder briefly how much of the cold he can really feel as a skeleton monster, aiming to ask at a later date. 

What you’re currently curious about is his stormy attitude, made evident by the stiffness in his spine as he glances over the establishment. His dark eye sockets only stop when they meet your own, and you wave in welcome, happy when he starts at a brisk pace in your direction.

“Papyrus! I’m sorry Sans forgot his packed lunch, had I not kept him so late he would have maybe remembered,” you say to him once he’s close enough, and he stops next to the table, made taller by your sitting position. 

“INDEED, IT’S TROUBLING HOW DISTRACTED MY BROTHER TENDS TO BE IN YOUR PRESENCE, BUT AT LEAST HE LEAVES THE HOUSE! I SUPPOSE A MIRACLE CANNOT BE MADE WITHOUT SACRIFICE, AFTER ALL,” Papyrus would roll his eyes you think if he had any present, but his statement gives the desired effect. When his skull turns sharply towards your companion at the table, you perk up in anticipation. 

“METTATON. I DID NOT TAKE YOU TO BE THE SORT TO VISIT SUCH A LOCATION, OR REALLY HAVE A NEED TO CONSUME SUSTENANCE AT ALL. BUT IT’S ENTIRELY POSSIBLE FOR A SINGULAR PERSON TO CONTINUE TO DISAPPOINT MY OPINION OF THEM.”

Oh no. 

“Ah, Papyrus, and in that you would be wrong. Never settle on a single impression of a person,” Mettaton says with a wag of one of his fingers. “Or you’ll just set yourself up to be doped by them later.”

“YOU ARE CORRECT IN THIS, AT LEAST. I KNOW ENTIRELY WHAT YOU MEAN TO NOT BE INFLUENCED BY ONE’S ORIGINAL IDEA OF A PERSON’S CHARACTER, NAMELY THEIR INTELLECT AND THEIR SKILL AT MANIPULATING THEIR OPPONENT,” he rubs his chin in thought. “THERE WAS ONE SUCH CHARACTER THAT I THOUGHT UNRIVALED IN THEIR STRATEGY, IN THEIR ABILITY TO TAKE THE SIMPLEST PUZZLE AND TURN INTO A PIECE OF ART SO MAGNIFICENT IT COULD WARP THE STRONGEST OF MINDS, AND FELL THE MOST POWERFUL OF SOULS. UNFORTUNATELY, OVER TIME THEIR SKILLS PROVED TO BE NOTHING MORE THAN GAUDY, PARTY TRICKS THAT EVEN A CHILD COULD PERFORM. OH, BUT YOU WOULD KNOW THAT, WOULDN’T YOU? CONSIDERING YOU ARE EXACTLY OF WHOM I SPEAK!”

“ _ Listen here!”  _ Mettaton stands up from his seat, his support extending so that he’s a bit more eye-to-eye with Papyrus, but then not quiet, and you realize that with the argument between them...the bar keeps going as it was previously. Patrons are still talking Music still plays. It’s only another day, no one seems bothered in the least by what’s happening.

On the other hand you wish you could say something...but know you shouldn’t. Something about this seems long in coming, if Mettaton’s words on how they had barely spoken means anything, and they have a lot to say to each other. 

Mettaton stabs a finger into Papyrus’ chest, “Who was the one practically slathering at my boots when we encountered one another outside the throne room?  _ Hm?  _ I seem to recall a certain monster  _ begging _ for my autograph-!”

Papyrus smacks the offending appendage away, “HARDLY! IF ANYTHING IT WAS OUT OF PITY! EVERYONE KNOWS OF THE POWER YOU POSSES, BUT ALL YOU’VE DONE IS SQUANDER IT! HIDING IN THE SHADOWS AND CRYING ABOUT YOUR MISFORTUNE! OH BOO HOO, I’M NOT AS PRETTY AS I’VE ALWAYS DREAMED OF BEING! NOW NONE OF MY ONE THOUSAND, TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-THREE PLUS FANS WILL LOVE ME!  _ PATHETIC! _ ”

Okay, perhaps this has gone too far.

“You, you  _ brute!  _ You’re no different than that layabout brother of yours-!”

_ “WHAT?” _

“THAT’S ENOUGH,” you yell with an immediate surge to your feet, both monsters snapping to attention and falling silent to stare at you simultaneously. “Dragging Sans into this discussion will help nothing! Rather than stand there squabbling like children, sit down, and talk to each other like the level headed adults you both claim yourselves to be!”

Neither say anything at once, but neither do they move to do ask you’ve asked either, Papyrus opening is sharp maw to speak up no sooner then seconds after your demand: “HUM-.”

“Papyrus,” he straightens, mouth shutting audibly with a clacking of bone. “Everyone has a weakness, no matter how great, even the most astonishing of people falter at times. Rather than focus on how Mettaton has apparently disappointed you recently, remember how he has inspired you! A Royal Strategist must see something in Mettaton’s talent!”

Be it that a majority of Mettaton’s most recent works were about the kidnapping and destroying of fiendish humans that had fallen into the underground, you knew this from his work, it was Papyrus’ duty as hand to the king to devise plans helping in that endeavor, only outside of the realm of fantasy. If he was really a fan despite this, that has to mean something!

Papyrus shares a long look with Mettaton...and slumps in resignation. “The human is correct. You aren’t entirely worthless.”

“What’s that dear,” Mettaton snarks, and your eyebrows raise at his tone of voice. “I, I mean, please. Indulge me.”

“WHEN I WAS A YOUNG SKELETON YOUR WORK WAS...INSPIRING. INGENIOUS REALLY, ONLY A SUPERCOMPUTER COULD BE CAPABLE OF THE FEATS OF CLEVERNESS YOU PERFORMED.”

If Mettaton could blush, it would a sight to see you imagine, but he has to settle with pressing his hand to his square body. 

“I WAS ALWAYS INTERESTED IN PUZZLES, BUT IT WAS YOUR WORK THAT PROPELLED MY IDEAS INTO A DREAM, A DREAM OF CRUSHING MANKIND UNDERNEATH MY BOOTS AFTER A JAPE OF MAGNIFICENT PROPORTIONS!”

“Oh, my,” Mettaton gasps, sinking back into his seat. “I never knew! The Royal Strategist inspired by me? It’s hardly surprising given my fabulous repertoire, but I simply never knew!”

“I SAW IT! THE VIGOR! THE COLD-MAGICED RUTHLESSNESS OF YOUR ENDEAVORS! BUT YOU THREW IT ALL AWAY! YOUR IDEAS LOST THEIR POTENTIAL! NOTHING MATTERED TO YOU ANYMORE AND BECAUSE OF WHAT? YOU WERE SUDDENLY STRONGER? YOU HAD TWICE THE STOPPING FORCE AND IT WAS TOO MUCH? HAD I BEEN GIVEN SUCH A GIFT, NOTHING WOULD HAVE HALTED ME IN MY PATH TO GLORY!”

“And that’s where you’re wrong! If you were in my shoes you would understand perfectly why I am the way I am today,” Mettaton says in declaration, panels shining crimson and gold. “If you knew what I wanted, why I dreamed of-!” He leaves off there, saying nothing more, and something rattles in his chest, a fan you didn’t know had been on  _ wirr _ ing into silence. “No one understands. You can have all the eyes of the world on you, and none of it matters unless it’s that certain someone. And I ruined that chance.”

“... in that you are wrong, Mettaton,” Papyrus says, speaking at an indoor acceptable level that he’s rarely displayed in your person, and it’s impossible to miss the tightening of his eye sockets that exists for just a moment. But it’s a moment that means something. “I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU MEAN…”

That’s your cue. Taking up your phone and coat from the seat, you step out from the booth. “I’m afraid that I need to turn in for the night,” you say, and you know they must see the opening you're leaving for them both. Now, if only they’ll take it. “It was nice meeting up with you again, Mettaton, I’m looking forward to our next discussion and seeing the progress you’ve made.”

“Of course, love. You know I always enjoy our talks.”

“And Papyrus, we’ll speak later,” you ask, waving your phone for emphasis. “Keep me updated on whether you’ve decided to visit that cult that keeps messaging you for an invite on Rantbook!”

“AS IF I WOULD DO ANYTHING LESS,” he replies with a cross of his arms over his chest. Saying one last goodbye to the two of them, you don you coat, pocket your phone, and head for the entrance. You don’t look over your shoulder to see if Papyrus is sitting down, but you hope for the best, welcoming the bite of the winter air on your skin when you leave the bar. 

A sigh drifts into the wind, and you remain in front of the door for a tick, eyes closed, until someone clears their throat nearby. 

“that went well.”

“You saw everything,” you eyes snap open, finding him in the dark, beside the bar. Snow sticks to his coat in tiny flakes, a few landing on his skull and not melting as quickly as others. Rather than sharpening his features, the calm glow of the street light nearest curves his cheek bones into gentle slopes, and his eyes appear to be tiny stars, the brightest in an otherwise pitch black pair of skies.

“heard most of it, hard to miss out on you yellin’, _ heh _ ,” he chuckles, and you question his choice of wording privately, but you’ve realized something: “You aren’t going to go in and stop it?”

“why would i do that?”

“Mettaton said something about you not approving of his character. He thinks you don’t want him near his brother.”

“i don’t,” Sans answers frankly. “but paps ain’t no babybones, he can take care of himself. ain’t nothin’ sayin’ that i won’t go in and crack that bastard open if he tries anythin’, neither. i’ve got an eye on that bot,” and as so he says, one of his eye’s flashes yellow, then red again, back and forth as the other disappears in his skull in a cloud of darkness. 

You laugh lightly at the display, unsure how to feel about the situation if it should lead to anyone being hurt, and you think Sans takes it the wrong way. His eyes return to normal, but he’s unhappy, narrowing his eye sockets in irritation. “i don’t care what anyone says, i’ve got a better freakin’ head on my shoulders then they think i do! i ain’t goin’ to go bustin’ into the joint threatin’ to kill someone!”

“I know,” you reply simply, no longer frowning, but settling into gently smiling at your skeleton. “You’re so much more than anyone gives you credit for.”

“w-whatever,” he grumbles, facing away, and it proves to strengthen your comfort in being near him again further. 

Holding yourself against the wind, you consider staying there, keeping him company. Although, you will be seeing him tomorrow, and who’s to say that spending time with him on his shift will not lead to him getting a complaint from his boss…?

“you cold,” Sans asks, but doesn’t give you a chance to reply. “‘course you are, barely anything of you there. humans, nothin’ but blood and meat,” he says mostly to himself you suspect, unzipping his coat. 

You raise your hands, protesting what you suspect he’s about to offer, “Keep your coat, Sans-!”

“heck kind of idea would that be,” he interrupts, and instead of removing it, he opens the sides...holding them open in invitation.

Once your brain registers what he’s actually doing, you swoop in at once, bringing your arms as much around his person as you can manage while tucking yourself against his form. 

Warmth radiates in waves against you, more so when he closes his coat around you, keeping it that way with his arms rather than zipping it once more. 

So close, you can hear the familiar humming of his magic, and the hiss of his breath from between his teeth, and you can feel the rumble of his speech in his sternum when he speaks above you. 

“used to do this for paps ‘fore he got to big. had his own stuff, none of it fit, but it was somethin’. didn’t stop him from asking…”

“I understand why…” 

Your mumble is lost in his sweater, but his hold tightens, Sans’ jaw brushing the top of your head as he pulls you closer. Away from the wind, the cold, and everything else but the two of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every time i mention a flower in my writing i have to try to find the perfect one... this time it was Sweet Alyssum.   
> this chap went a tad differently then i expected but if you squint, you can see plot


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, hello!

It’s late Friday morning and Sans is fidgeting in his boots.

He tries to tell himself to calm down, nothing about fretting over the situation is going to make it any easier, but that’s not stopping his eyes from darting to his phone every five minutes.

Maybe if he’s lucky, you’ll decide to sleep in since it’s your day off. But it’s one you planned on spending with him, and if there’s anything he’s starting to learn, it’s that you have a strange interest in being apart his life as much as possible.

A few more hours, that’s all he’s asking for.

Then he can pack up this stand and book it the hell out of here.

That morning had started like any other, Sans skull deep in his bedsheets when Paps had the head splitting kindness to yell at his older brother to wake up for breakfast.

Weekend or not, nothing interrupts family meals in Papyrus’ book.

Sans had thought about settling in for a nap after so he didn’t look like a complete train wreck whenever you guys finally decided to meet up (you’d left it open, knowing his shift at Grillbz’) but halfway through his ‘cakes and his boss had given him a call.

‘parently the guy that was supposed to wrap up the business for the season had called in, that left Sans with the shift, and the job of packing up the stand.

Normally Sans would have noped the hell out of that idea. But his boss was so freaking _nice_. Some vet from the Iraq War as it’s called, he'd spent a majority of their life living in the Bronx until he signed up for the army for help with college tuition, and for the strict physical regimen.

They’d given Sans is job on the spot when the monster had applied, but couldn’t hold back a whistle at the sight of him.

_“Gotta be honest man, you are a tank with teeth,” James King as he had introduced himself took a step back, all smiles, and Sans had to hold back a smirk at the human’s show of bravery in what actually sounded like a compliment._

_“that a problem, boss?”_

_“No, sir. Not about to discriminate based on someone’s appearance. The the things I’ve seen, you don’t blind yourself to who someone is, you celebrate it. Life wouldn’t be worth living if everything was the same shade of gray.”_

King had been one of the first decent humans that Sans had run into on the surface, and, luckily that didn’t stop. He met you, and you came to mind when Sans accepted the last day of work. He thinks you’d get along with his boss and that you’d understand his decision.

But Sans is still worried you’ll be disappointed that he’ll have to ask for more time, and anything removed from the usual billowing warmth of your typical attitude around him is making his shift drag by. That and the fact that he’s really looking forward to seeing you again, period.

A rough sigh escape his jaws when he tucks his phone away for the dozenth time, picturing the night before. You’d been cozied up to him for a nice, long time outside the bar, only his instance that you get warm when he noticed your ears turning red at their tips got you to finally go home.

Still took time, though, and he’d been reluctant to let go.

That level of comfort he lended you was too nostalgic, reminding him of the days when his bro was so tiny Sans could tuck him into his coat and keep him far away from the cold of Snowdin. It’d gotten harder the more their dad had started to shut down, but nothing was stopping Sans from protecting what was left of what’s his.

Now Paps has a hard time clearing some door frames and you’ve shown up to take his spot. It’d been hard, accepting that someone else might actually derive comfort from being around him, but it’s different than when it was with Paps.  

You lean into Sans, he feels himself leaning back. Kind of strange with how much shorter you are but, _heh_. Sans has seen you riled up, angry proper, and knows you’re tougher than anyone might give you credit for. Including yourself.

Settling on his last memory of when he saw you actually pissed off, Sans’ grin grows, and the only thing that keeps him from completely forgetting about his surroundings is the human that decides to pull up beside his stand just then.

Sans does a double take in their direction, the human lifting a hand, and saying “Yo!” _as if wearing freaking groucho glasses while greeting a stranger is completely normal-!!_

“what the he-?”

“Hey, friend,” the human cuts in, circling away from the bench and going to stand in front of the counter, closing their eyes in some sort of bliss when they center their nose over the ‘dog compartment. “ _Maaan_ , that smells good!”

“ca-can i help you,” Sans has to ask, more confused then irritated at whatever the heck this person is all about exactly. The human steps back, their eyes shining in a way that sends a flash of familiarity through Sans’ bones. Tensing up further, he takes a second to look them over: nice clothing, something a little later then a five o’clock shadow, but head hair otherwise recently trimmed. Sans notes that their posture is sharp as a pin and it clashes violently with the gag ensemble stuck to their face.

“Yes, I do believe you can, my good man,” the human announces in the middle of his examination, all teeth, and Sans’ hand is already hovering towards a boat when he flinches at the human’s close proximity. The freak has shoved half their body over the counter and is pointing their ear in Sans’ direction, fake brows wiggling in place as he speaks in a whisper: “A little bird told me you’re pretty close to a certain white collar human!”

It takes Sans a second to get that it’s you they're talking about and it sends his magic into a boil immediately. _first that snotty toaster and now this freak? i’m going to kill this freaking bird-!_

“ _the hell’s it to ya,”_ Sans pounds a fist into the counter, making the condiments rattle in place, and the human wisely backs off with hands raised. That doesn’t stop them from smiling, though, and that doesn’t help Sans’ temper one freaking bit.

“Nothing, nothing! All I want to know is if you and star are close-!”

“ _leave pol the hell out of this_ ,” Sans barks out, his phalanges biting into the stand’s surface. Both of the human’s eye brows raise as shuddering punctures the air, and a couple of random bystanders near by stop to stare. “they don’t need some showboating bastards butting into their life ‘n wrecking things!”

The human’s smile slackens but they aren’t running for the hills like they should be, either, and they haven’t dropped their guard. “You’re pretty protective of them, aren’t you?”

“do i have to sab you in the face with tongs to get my point across,” Sans grinds out, and the human has the gall to _laugh. Actually fucking laugh-!_

“I haven’t heard a threat that honest from anyone but my grandmother-in-law in years,” they guffaw into the air, and Sans is already stepping out from around the stand when they break off from their laughing: “Her and the king, that is. Pol-star must be having one heck of a time with you!”

Sans isn’t aware that he’s stopped until the human smiles, reaching one hand to their glasses, and sliding them just far enough off their face to give him a wink that sends a shock through his spine.

 

You hair is an unkempt hedge when you manage to pull yourself out of the mound of blankets you’ve buried yourself under in the night. Normally with the coming cold you would simply turn up the thermostat, but the added weight and warmth has been sending you into a deeper sleep than ever before recently.

Peering blearily around your room with the barest recognition of where you actually are, you rub at your forehead when a tendril of hair causes it to itch, and lift your cell with your other hand, where it’s been trapped since you picked it up.

You’d grabbed it off the side table a a bit ago but hadn’t bothered to check it, you have most of the morning after all-.

_IT’S 10:46!_

Scrambling out of bed, a bigger effort than even the norm with the added fabric, you barely miss toppling out of bed. AD makes himself known by picking up a head from the end of the bed, so well blended into the white folds of the duvet that he was impossible to see previously, and he says nothing to your hasty goodmorning.

You forget about keeping the place tidy as you busy through your dresser and closet, going back and forth as you try to find something that’s both presentable as well as warm. Another thing that takes more time then it should, but you can’t decide between slacks or jeans. Boots or sensible shoes? A scarf or a high collar sweater? Sans likes to wear turtlenecks, you’re reminded as you stand in front of your dresser’s mirror. Would it be odd if you somehow matched? What if the colors were different? He would look lovely in some sort of brown, perhaps, something to compliment his eyes. But black, now black has definitely always been a winner.

AD yawns from the bed, and you blink out of that thought, but not the smile you’ve come to wear. Back to business.

You decide on a gray sweater with a wide neck, a lighter tank as an undershirt, comfortable jeans, and your boots. A charming pair of knit socks that you found at a shop, Bonnie’s Boutique, where a purple furred and long eared monster had complimented your outfit.

AD joined you in the bathroom as you brushed your teeth, lapping a waterbowl you’d placed there specifically for him since you typically close your door at night. He’s reminded you that he could go about anywhere when he phased through your second story window on his way out one afternoon, but he still uses it.

Humming to yourself, you check your phone again, remembering that there was something in particular that had woken you to begin with, and pause when you see a message from your dad.

_“Mornin’ twinkle-kins! Guess who I ran into in the park today?”_

A hand flies up to stop the sputter of toothpaste from your mouth when you see the picture attached. There’s your dad on a bench, holding up his phone for an apparent selfie, only he’s not alone! Next to him and tucked close as far as your dad probably enthusiastically asked for it is a very stiff, heavily sweating Sans. He’s trying to smile, he _really_ is, but the pin prick haziness of his eyes speaks volumes. You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone so nervous in your entire life!

You finish your brushing in record speed and hit dial just as you're spitting out the remainder. It rings and rings as you start to speak once it stops you're interrupted. Your shoulders slump with a sigh when you hear his voice on the other end, _“You’ve reached the number of William Ebott! Sorry that I’ve missed you, I’m probably spending time with my glorious husband..!”_

 

Your dad makes a noise in his throat when he bites into the ‘dog he ordered, looking as pleased as peaches while Sans is anything but. Your dad, your _freaking_ dad. Here, next to _him_ , in the park.

The is the last thing he could have expected, right next to Asgore himself calling him for a booty call in the middle of the night, and Sans isn’t sure which he’d take easier. He knows you didn’t expect this to happen, your dad said as much as he paid, and Sans thinks you probably would have given him a little warning ahead of time otherwise.

And he’ still wearing the glasses! The mystery is totally intentional, too. It’d been too easy, he said, for the public to recognize him after the meeting with the king and he couldn’t get the press off his back, albeit he said it a helluva lot more polite.

Sans gave him a look over, he couldn’t help himself. No LV to speak of, but his HP is pretty mediocre despite what he’s selling. ‘Cept Sans can’t say that because he’s starting to think that this bubbliness is 100% genuine stuff.

“That was wonderful,” the grown man coos, cupping his cardboard boat between his hands as they fall to his lap, and Sans continues to eye him wryly when he turns his head back towards the skeleton. “You wouldn’t believe how rare it is for me to eat something as common as a hot dog! But an all-date diet will do that to you…”

The guy stops staring wistfully into the distance long enough to catch Sans’ open bewilderment, chuckling when he does, “Sorry, odd fad. Thought I’d give it a go, not that Elliot’s said I need it, but he loves to indulge. Speaking of, Ell caught that video online that was released the other day.”

Sans straightens back up, remembering exactly what was near the end of the box’s video. “y-yeah?”

“Pol-star was pretty adamant in defending your name,” he nods to himself, obviously proud of his kid, and Sans is getting now how weird it is that the two of them are meeting at all. He was shocked before, now, yeah, it’s weird. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. How the heck does he act around the human he’s...uh...spending time with? Dating? Are you dating if there was only the one time-?!

“And I knew I had to meet the person who’s courting my kid,” the human butts in, grin positively cavity inflicting and Sans fights the urge to flee the premises, he’s never been so afraid.

“ _c-c-c-c-c-c-?”_

“Courting! Dating! Flowers, wine! Or karaoke,” Ebott waves his arms, _is he dancing?,_ and stops. “Whatever it is that you kids do these days. Weatherglass, by the way. Polaris likes them,” he taps the end of his nose with one finger.

“l-look, we’re not-! i’m not-!” Your dad watches him flail for an answer without comment, smile unfading, and Sans’ nerves are aflame with confusion. Tha’ hell was he supposed to tell this guy? “guy, i’m jus’ some monster from the underground that pol met gettin’ coffee one day, okay?”

“Oh?”

“ye-yeah. they helped me out, i helped them. nothin’ to it.”

“And now you’re seeing each other?”

“see-seeing? i ain’t seeing anyone-! we spend time together, that’s it. talk, hang out. went to the bar once.” Your dad’s grin turns scandalous, sending a series of “ _oh shits_!” off in his skull. “the one time! j-just the one time! an-and las-last night. but i was workin’!”

“Are you happy with Pol?”

“happy? c-course i am! pol’s a great, uh, pol’s great, ya know,” Sans breaks his eyes away from your dad’s, hopping his attention from one thing to the next to an effort to control himself. “i like the way they smile. always so freaking happy about something.”

The trees are starting to look a little more like home, and with all the snow you’d think it be easy to capture the affect.

“it’s always so easy for them to make friends. they’re so different then what i am.”

There’s the sky stretching out above it all, and there’s something to look forward to after the end of his shift. Something that’s not just waiting for his brother to come home from work or for the next reset to happen, each turn making things worse and worse down the line.

“but they don’t mind it. they actually like me for what i am, they don’t complain about lazy i can be, or how angry. i like holding their hand, talking to them, somehow making them feel better. i didn't think i could have this, but-.”

There’s you. Someone...waiting to spend the rest of the day with him.

“you make me think i have a place in this world.”

“WHOA, BUDDY, I’M TAKEN,” the human backs up in a panic with his hands raised and Sans just snaps: “ _i wasn’t talkin’ about you, ya idiot!”_

Silence descends like an axe and with it the remainder of Sans’ confidence, his magic practically stopping in his bones as he registers the fact that _he called your dad an idiot_

It takes Sans a solid minute to get that the yelling he’s hearing is someone laughing. There’s a rushing in his bones, static on steroids, and it’s coming from very, very far away

Reality snaps back like broken twine, and it’s right in his face with Ebott choking on his own spit

_“stop laughing!”_

“ _I, I can’t! You, you called me a-,”_ lack of oxygen catches up and he starts coughing in earnest, bending over his seat and leaving Sans without any choice but to start slapping at his back--that’s how you do it, isn’t it?

“because you _are_ one!”

Eventually Ebott gets himself together, grin and all, and he’s forced to bend over to grab at the glasses on the ground. Sans is exhausted, mentally, emotionally, physically, all the boxes have checked and it’s not even noon. No wonder you fled to your own apartment, how are you supposed to get peace with this guy around?

“I like you, Sans,” your dad chirps, and the monster doesn’t relax the narrowing his eyes.

“cause i just saved your life?”

“Because you make my child happy,” he replies instead and Sans holds onto the breath in his cage. “After their teacher died, it was hard to do that,” he goes on, looking over the park with the breeze gently jostling his shortened hair. “They blamed themself, I know that. But no matter what I said about it being the money, or what Elliot tried to do to draw them out...Elliot had a hard time once, sharing. When Pol moved out, we were so afraid of them isolating themselves, but smothering them, that’s the last thing Ell wanted to do.

“Nothing looked like it was changing. We didn’t know what to do, neither did Pol, and they hurt themselves so much over their aversion to physical touch,” Ebott has his hands clasped in front of them, one thumb rubbing over the other. “Us humans, we can’t go long without each other and all that mushy stuff. But then you guys, you monsters came to the surface, and every fairy tale story came true. What was once thought impossible, wasn’t quite so,” his expression is soft, reminding Sans again of the kid he raised. “You’re helping them in a way I never could, and I can’t thank you enough.”

Sans has to break his gaze from the man with the amount of sincerity your dad’s projecting. Scraping the tips of his fingers across the back of his skull causes a slight scritching noise, and he stops abruptly only to see that Ebott’s unchanged.

“you don’t need to thank me for that.”

“I know,” Ebott shrugs, sitting up on the bench. “But I’m going to anyways. There’s another thing, though.”

Sans’ hand falls away, curiosity lightning up again when he thinks he might hear more about you, because honestly he can’t help himself.  

“Hurt my kid and I’ll use your Dust to fertilize my front lawn!”

_who says something like that with that kinda smile-!_

A scattering of birds Sans barely took note of take flight when Ebott stretches out his legs, groaning deeply before standing up. Sans gets up with him, more relaxed now than he was. All of that kindness was a bit much, but a threat feels like home.

“i’ll keep you to it,” he rumbles off, for the first time managing some sort of smile. “someone like pol, i’d definitely deserve it.”

“Glad that we’re seeing eye to eye,” Ebott nods, and does something else unexpected in offering his hand up to the monster. “I’m William, by the way. It was nice to meet you, Sans.”

“eh, you too, Mr. Ebott.”

“Call me, Will,” he grins while putting his glasses back on with a flourish, the gleam in his eye sending a warning through Sans’ entire body. “Mr. Ebott is what my husband calls me!”

_whatthehell_

Ebott’s cackling follows him all the way down the sidewalk as he walks away with a noticeable skip in his step. Meanwhile Sans is left behind, wondering if it’d be possible for him to reach the inside of his skull with a sponge if he tried hard enough.

 

Sans ‘ports to your place an hour later, his meeting with your dad a lot longer than he expected. But so was the entire conversation.

He finds himself standing in the archway of your kitchen, and you’re there by the counter, a bowl in your arm and a batter covered whisk in hand when he arrives. “Sans!”

“i need a nap.”

The sound you make is nothing short of sympathetic, and the skeleton toddles forward once you’ve set aside what you have and raised your open arms. Settling himself between them, he rests his head on your collarbone and shoulder while his fingers clutch at your sides, his height probably making all this weird but the way you pet his skull makes him think you don't mind at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i listened to far too much clarinet for this. but when i asked what instrument Will would play, that was it's answer. 
> 
> i sort of had a bad break up recently and i'm still processing things, including the passing of time. a whole month has gone, and i don't know when that happened??
> 
> most of this chap was planned ages ago but i moved it up. hopefully i can get back into the groove of things, but i wanted you guys to know what's up.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle Love's...everything, was a big inspo for this most of chap. Check out their UT album. Their original contribution, Finally Home, is beautiful.

“i smell burning.”

Sans feels you chuckle nervously against the face of his skull before he pulls away, and you’ve found a spot on the wall to stare at rather than him. “Ah, i-is that so?”

Quirking a brow at the sudden stutter, Sans shifts look at the counter space to his right, taking in the scent of something charred. Your body moves in a flash, small form flitting between him and the top. “It’s nothing, really,” your voice warble slightly through your attempted smile, and the very obvious lie doesn’t stop him from trying to peek over your shoulder. Your person moves in tandem with his attempts, a protest in your mouth with every twitch: “Really! Sans! Why don’t we-.”

Sans snakes a hand ‘round your back when he spots a hint of something black, fingers catching on a plate and plucking it from behind you with the kind of graceful ease he normally saves for dodging a blow. 

“Sa-.”

“what the heck,” he asks himself without thinking, examining the three flat, but somehow perfectly round objects on the plate. Somehow, because they’re pitch black, burnt all to hell and back, but they’ve still managed to keep their shape. “is this-?” He glances passed your disappointed frown to a large mixing bowl near your elbow, the whisk beside it’s that’s smeared batter on the counter, and, on your other side, the iron skillet on the stove.

A skillet that’s surrounded by flecks of food, both scorched and undercooked. 

“are these ‘cakes,” he points at the plate in his hand, not botherin’ to hide his disbelief, and your shoulders sink in defeat.

“I was going to make you a late lunch in case you had not eaten, but, well, my cooking skills haven’t really improved recently…”

Sans remembers what you told him about you’re cooking, but it’s not the damage you’ve done that causes his typical placid scowl to wither into nothing. Seeing how he’s reacting, you go pale, distress obvious in your eyes when you go to reach for your work, taking it from his numb fingers in a soft clattering of bone against porcelain. 

“L-let’s forget about this,” you mutter, picking up a spatula by the pan and already walking over to AD, the dog hardly making it into his notice beyond a brief mental note when he first ‘ported into the room. You stop by the demon, the pup already sitting up, and it’s jaw unhinges in a fashion eerily close to that of a trash can when you hold the plate above him.

How many of those ‘cakes have you already gone through?

“I know this restaurant on main... _ ”  _ you trail off, falling silent when you finally notice your very empty hand. When you turn about, Sans tucks his prize further into his side, prepared to ‘port away if you so much as thought about taking it away from him.

“Sans, why-?”

“i’m eatin’ it.”

“But it’s hardly-.”

“ain’t no buts about it,” he interrupts, glad at least that the discomfort you were feeling has disappeared. He tries to be rational about it, pulling it back between the two of you, but still keeping both hands tight on the plate. “i’ve eaten complete trash before, slick, and i ‘told you about paps’ learnin’ how to cook in the underground. it wasn’t exactly the best experience.”

You shake your head frown alighting into a gentle smile, “I recall. That doesn’t mean you have to subject yourself-.” He steps back when you reach out, the action taking you off guard again, and Sans prays that there ain’t any sweat on his skull giving him away.

“look, slick,” he stops himself, trying to find the right words. He wishes you could see what he sees, it’d make it a helluva lot easier. You, his human, standing in the kitchen tied up in an apron, with pancake mix on your elbows and cheeks. He came here to get away from his life, to unwind, and what’s he greeted with? Someone making a meal for him, arms open the second they see he needs them. 

Sans wishes he could tell him how happy that makes him, how he wishes he could look forward to that for the rest of his life. 

But he can’t tell you that, not after only one date with the guy. Not when he thinks you might actually want it to. He wouldn’t do that to anyone. Especially not you.

So he does the next best thing. He follows AD’s lead, opens up his mouth, lifts the plate, and dumps the cakes right between his teeth,.

 

A tick passes, then another. Your hand hovers in the air, held by a string, and when your friend doesn’t immediately seem to be ready to keel over into Dust, you speak: “Sans?”

Sans’ jaws part, and like a truck’s engine back firing, a cloud of smoke escapes in a billow from his mouth.  _ “Sans!”  _ The space separating the two of you is eliminated in only a scant number of seconds, time enough for his arms to fall to his sides, and your grip to find them. “Sans, say something,” you plea to the void of his eye sockets, their lights entirely gone-- _ ah!  _ There they are! Flickering back into focus, brightening with life. “Sans, are you okay,” you have to ask, nearly grimacing at the panic in your voice, but too worried to care for decorum at the moment. 

“that was something,” he rumbles out as a response, lifting the emptied plate in his hand to give it a dubious eyeful. But then he shrugs, actually shrugs, the motion pulling at your white knuckled hands as you refuse to let him go. “ain’t too bad.”

“Sans, there was smoke coming from your mouth!”

“had worse, what i tell you?”

“But,” you begin, unsure truly as to what to say. Should you scold him? Ask him why in heaven's name would he do something so absurd? So unnecessary? At least he’s okay. Or, seems okay…

“nothin’ to worry about, slick,” he says, catching onto your thought process. He takes your round shoulders in his large hands, drawing your attentive twice-over of his person, but the warmth simmering in his eyes couldn’t scare away your hovering concern. “‘ey, you ever heard about intent before?”

“Intent,” you parrot back, not understanding what he’s hinting at. “Yes, the definition of, so to speak.”

“well, the thing is with us monsters we’re pretty vulnerable to intent, it’s a pretty big deal for us,” he says, and you listen with growing attentiveness, fascinated with not only the content of your speech but how devoted you become to explaining things once you’ve begun. “we’re made of mostly magic, there’s not much shielding us from the world, and emotions are a pretty vital part of that. 

“those ‘cakes, uh, you made um for me, right?”

You nod, “I didn’t want you to go hungry, and I was afraid that my father may have been a tad stressful at the park.”

“yeah, so, uh, most stuff has magic in it to some degree. we monsters can break down matter and use that magic given enough time, no matter what it is.”

“Is that why Papyrus doesn’t mind using glitter in his food,” you ask in astonishment, at last understanding, and Sans chuckles, a bitter note hanging there when he responds: “yeah, that’s one reason.” 

You wonder curiously at the small change, but it’s gone when he continues, “thing is about your ‘cakes, they’re food. they were made to be eaten, thats why they would be a lot easier, and faster to chew through then, i dunno, nuts and bolts. there’s also thing about consistency. solids versus liquids, but whatever. 

“second, you made them with the pure intention of me enjoying eating them. that’s a big deal, made them a whole lot more palpable that way, not matter what they look like.”

“I think I understand,” you admit, tapping a knuckle at your chin, but you still can’t help but side eye the mess on the counter. 

“hey, i’m not goin’ to lie, them turnin’ out the way they should woulda made them better,” he says, your soul twisting in your chest, but he doesn’t hide the amusement he’s feeling. “but so would you thinkin’ they were the best damn things you’ve made. and that goes both ways.”

You “hmm?” in question when he scratches at the back of his skull, frankly appearing rather embarrassed no matter how much he tries to ignore your gaze, and that awe you felt previously comes back in waves.

His reply is quiet, restrained, but it’s him, and how could you possibly regret this now when he says what he does next: “‘n i really like the idea of you cooking for me, pol.”

 

Your grin is like a curtain pushed back, the sun on the other side coming out blinding, but welcome when he’s managed to steady himself after it’s appearance. He’s attempting to find his footing when you wrap your arms around his torso, his own pair of hands flying up and not knowing where to land with you beaming at him like that. 

“I’m glad. I’ll cook for you for the rest of our lives if you’ll have me, Sans,” are your words, and he could swear to the queen and back that you can’t read minds but that doesn’t stop his Soul from shuddering in his chest.

How the hell do you do that? How do you  _ always _ know what to say?

He gives up, finding one of your arms again with one hand, while the other rests against the crown of your head.

“shouldn’t go ‘round makin’ proposals like that, pol.”

“Why would you say that, Sans?”

“somebody might think you’re bein’ serious.”

“Not sirius, Sans” you chide, and his bones seize up under your unfaltering touch. “Po-lar-is,” you enunciate every syllable with the curving of your lips, their bow and string widening wider, fuller, when you finish. 

_ fuck _ , he’s laughing, he can’t help himself, holy freaking Toriel he’s relieved, and that was so damn clever but you’re laughing along and every one of his guffaws are reverberating in his chest as it’s pressed against your own.

Fuck, he’s happy.

Fuck 

 

_ fuck _

 

he’s in love

  
  
  


“Monsters are pretty fragile bastards.”

The front door of your home clicks closed behind you as you leave with Sans, the monster hanging out at the bottom of the stairs while he waits for you to lock up the place. That pea coat and a knit scarf, eh? You’ve become pretty attached to that thing since you bought it.

“What happens when we try and knock him out and we kill the guy?”

“You heard the monster,” the onlooker responds, clicking off the live feed once he’s sure you aren’t going to run back for anything you may have forgotten. Keys and wallet by the hall mirror, coat by the door, all lights out. That should be it. 

Turning in his desk chair, they eye their compatriots available in the room, namely the one who spoke up last. 

“It’s simple, stick to the plan of taking him alive.”

 

"Must you?"

Sans nearly chokes on his mustard, but when Grillby appears on the other side of the bar with disgust written all over his flaming face it's hard for a man to keep his drink down.

"the hell you goin' on about," Sans growls out, and Grillby pops a glowing brow when it doesn't come out as irritable as it normally would. 

"Anyone with the Eyes can see your Soul is working up a frenzy."

Sans rolls his lights in their sockets, more of his old gusto in his reply this time when he manages it, "last i checked you were the only geezer in this bar with the _eyes_ to see that kind of thing." 

"Of which I'm grateful or I wouldn't have any other patrons to _serve_."

The various lamps and candles flare up momentarily when their source starts spitting out spite like this and Sans gives a cautious glance around the room. There aren't a lot of people here, looks like those who are might be too deep in their cups or too caught up in conversation to care. But if there's anything that could run them out, it's a pissed off Grillbz. 

But what really has Sans concerned is seeing if you happened to stroll in at the wrong time.

Sans is losing his marbles ever since his little revelation, and ever since then he hasn't gotten a chance away from you to think it over.  Not til now, when you promised to not take to long in the bathroom.

He can't deny what how he feels about you. Hell, Sans knows he's been feeling it for a while now. But there's a difference between calling you his human, and wanting to be...well, _that._  

For one thing you'd probably think the former was charming, another part of monster culture or some such nonsense he could go along with if he wanted. The two of you could laugh it off and go about things per the norm.

The latter on the other hand...yeah that's...that's a thing. Like, getting together and dating thing. Meeting parents. S-sharing bedrooms. Owning a dog-.

_ wait, haven't we done all that? kind of? what the hell are we-?! _

" _Sans!_ "

Sans snaps too, definitely aware of the fire elemental that's on the verge of exploding in his face. Is that a bit of fang? It's been awhile since he's since he's seen those! And Grillby...he's been around for awhile.

"grillz, bud, you've gotta help me out."

Grillby straightens up, he  turns, and he leaves, kitchen door swinging shut behind him.

well.

"Is Grillby feeling well," you ask right on time, Sans' Soul jumping in his cage and threatening to catapult into the ceiling with how abrupt your appearance is. That is exactly why. "The lighting in the bathroom sputtered for a moment," you go on, completely oblivious as usual when you take back your seat next to him. 

"uh, yeah," Sans mumbles, hoping that his desperation isn't showing as glaringly as he feels as he sends the doors to the back one last stare. "takes a lot to unsettle grillbz."

_ like a friend asking for advice on their love life.  _

"That's good," you say, like a weight's been lifted off your shoulders. A fickle part of Sans' Soul flickers green for a reason entirely unrelated to anything kind. "You both seem close, and I would like the chance to know your friends better."

_ great, now you want to be buddy buddy with my friends. the universe is laughing in my face now. _

"Sans?"

"s-so why grillbys'?" Sans pipes up, fiddling with his mustard bottle. You've got a glass of your own, but it's no more alcoholic then his own drink, something about wanting a clear head for the rest of the night.  Ah, well, admittedly when I said I wanted to see you, my plans stopped short after that," you confess to the bar top, red hovering on your cheeks and definitely taking away his attempt at reading the label of his bottle. "I thought, I want to see Sans! And it was basically a mantra of that from then on out." You rub a spot on the arch of your cheek bone, looking at but not exactly taking in the bottles of liquor on the shelves across from the two of you.

"uh, right." He's not going to say that he had exactly the same thought process, not out loud. Where you can _hear_ him. 

"But Grillby's, you enjoy it here when not on the clock," you say, confidence returning, and you give into facing him again. "And after the park, I thought you might prefer it."

Yeah, the park. He and you had hung around at your place for a bit, time enough to clean up your mess and then bounce out of there. He'd been in a near robotic state as you lead him to the park, blowing into your hands despite the gloves covering them. He'd wanted to take them in his hands, and warm them himself, but Sans is in a weird stare of mind right now.

One stuck on the idea of fleeing from you at the earliest convenience and dropping to one knee with a proposal of his very own in mind. 

_ stupid, stupid, stupid,  _ Sans shakes his skull to get that mental image out, not responding to the curious sound this elicits from the human in question at his side. The same human that in the middle of their walk in the park decided to spring the question of Christmas gifts on him.

"y-you wanna get me something?"  


"I'm not sure as to what yet, I will say," you mused, looking over the pond as the two of your circled it nearby, thankfully missing the tense set of his teeth. 

Back in the Underground they had Gryftmas, a holiday typically only shared between close friends and tight knit family members. Gifts themselves were few in number, the majority of items hand made from retailers and pulled together from scraps at the dump or what they could find from their environment. Thing was, materials were closely regulated, given how limited they were, and relations were strained, to say the least, where he came from. So if you got a gift, it _meant_ something. It wasn't like up here, where you chunk an iPhone at your kid and don't blink an eye of thought after. Hell, the kid would sure as hell not have the right to whine about it either. People who don't appreciate gifts properly...well, they probably didn't have friends to begin with.

"But in my family, it's traditional for any gift to be homemade."

"family like yours?" You laugh at the skepticism, one he started to reconsider after. Your family has kind of proven to be on the weird side so far...

"A family like mine," you nod, agreeing because it's plain what he implied. "Because of that, that we could afford what we wanted, we thought it was important to share something made on our own. Something made from the heart, with all the consideration of that person in mind."

Nearly everything in the Underground was patched up, second hand of second hand, and made by your own efforts. That kind of devotion made giving rarer then it already was, and a hundred times more important. 

Sans knows you aren't a monster, you didn't like in the Underground, and you definitely didn't understand the cultural implications of what you said, but he knows that getting a gift from you is going to end him. 

Not that the severity of the situation would stop you from making him a gift if he _told_ you. At this point he likes to think he knows you enough by now to consider that option. It'd only makes things worse. 

"Your family, Sans," you begin, catching him unaware when the thoughtful gleam set in your two, round, uniquely human spheres. "Besides Papyrus, are there any others?"

 

You smile leaves your face when Sans falls into silence once more. A silence that's not accompanied by the beading of red on his skull, or the jitteriness of his stance, as has been going on all night. What was it that you said that has lead to him acting like this? And what is it about your question now that has brought him to a stand still?

It's ready, your intention to tell him that he doesn't need to tell you, and you would never make him if you could help it. Discomfort, anger, amusement, it's all missing when he at last, when the minutes pass, speaks.

No, you could never make him.

"we have a dad. royal scientist. former," he stops, starts again. "got into an accident, almost died. thought he did til the barrier fell. turns out he's not and hasn't left the mountain since." 

Sans takes a swig of his mustard, the hard _thump_ of it's plastic bottom hitting the bar is like a switch. The scattered conversations in the bar fill your ears again, and you're not sure when they went quiet. Or if they very well had at all. If you peer around, everyone would be unfazed, leaning into friends, dealing cards, drinking. 

For a moment, there was a hiccup. A small one, and time seemed to linger. Not to stop, but to hesitate. Now, now it's as if it never occurred. Re-centering yourself in the present, you sharpen your focus back on your friend, aware that he's carving indents into the container in his hand. You want to take his palm in yours and smooth away whatever that's there, given away so subtly, but you don't think he would appreciate it. 

"don't want to talk about it."

It? His father? The accident that left him without? No, you won't ask. You'll vow that much to your friend, though it's best you keep it to yourself. But there must be something

The kitchen door swings open, the burning star that is Grillby reappearing and none the worse for wear considering your past misgivings of his health. "Sans," he speaks, a fireplace popping irritably, and, remarkably, your friend twitches, clearly annoyed. "Scar the wood and you'll burn."

"wouldn't be tempted if your product was worth a damn!"

"Like I'd buy the good stuff with you coming around here drinking it like water," Grillby nearly spits, and Sans is near to imploding in his seat. Rather then concern himself with his friend, Grillby turns to you, "Get him out of here. Get him laid. I don't care."

 

Sans' radar goes off in an instant, he can hear the full question you've got milliseconds before you're about to ask it, and his hand finds your arm right on time. 

You don't protest as he pulls you out, only waving and saying goodbye to his  _best friend_ on your way out. Sans lets you pull on your scarf and tuck it into your coat, ready to head out til he spies the button undone near the top. He doesn't dare meet Grillby's disdainful scowl when he fixes it for you, smiling uncertainly himself when you grin ear to ear, but thankfully move under his arm and out the door without complaint. 

With no plan at the ready, the both of you steer towards your place. A night in on his couch is all he wants, maybe one prior to today when things made less sense, and somehow so much more at once. It's cold out and getting colder, he pulls you close to his side blushing red under the collar of his coat, or near as he can get it. The walk home is quiet, comfortable, it scares him a bit, _are they already in a relationship?,_ but it doesn't take long to get where they're going. 

You leave your things at the door when you guys are inside, Sans removing his beanie and watching you sprawl out length wise across your couch in the closest approximation of gracelessness he's ever seen you preform. You still pull it off like something out of a movie, ten out of ten, and he's almost capable of averting his eyes from your barely exposed midriff. 

_ what woulda happened if i let you ask that question? _

He could tell you.

"hey, slick..." he mutters, standing near the back of the couch, but your widening eyes halt him in his tracks from possibly making the worst mistake of his life.

"I know what we could do," you announce, bouncing up to lean against the couch and shine those brights in his direction. So much for thinking clearly. 

Your idea turns out to be a movie night. Accompanied by thick blankets, and something called fix-mix scrambled with popcorn making up the delicacies the dinner you have planned. You pull out the good stuff, which is basically every mustard you have remaining in your cabinet, and Sans settles in next your side, squinting at the leather clad assholes on screen called "greasers" he once reminded you of. 

"they're as smooth talking as you are," he remarks shortly after it starts, and the way it makes you sputter in indignity is more then worth the comparison. This actually does wonders to calm him down, and Sans spends the rest of the night considering his final decision. 

He's not going to tell you, but...that he's been certain of from the start. This, what you've got going on with him, it's enough. Any idea of ruining what you have know fills his Soul with absolute dread, and that's exactly what would happen if he were to try to confess to you. Confessing would have to come with telling the truth. Telling the truth meant spilling what happened in the Underground, with Frisk, with what he did.

And Sans is afraid that even your amazing Soul has it's limits in kindness. Going so far as to be someone that killed a child, over, and over, and over again, he doesn't stand a chance. What he's doing with you, using you like he is for his own comfort, his own sense of purpose after having lost it for so long, it's already disgusting. 

Giving you his Soul, that's one burden he'll never ask you to take. He was being honest with your father when he said what he did. 

_someone like you_ , Sans watches the way the glow of the television dances across your face, settling into every curve, causing every lash to shine.  _i'll never deserve._

 

You were tucked in tight, left in bed for the night, and lost to another world entirely when Sans left you. AD curled up by your side, a gargoyle by every definition of the word, and helping convince him that you would be safe for the night. 

He needs an evening in is own bed, not your couch, or curled up on your sheets. The other night was the last of that if he manages to control himself, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't already miss the idea of being curled up in your lap. He'd never had morning as near to dreamless as that one. 

Rather then take a short cut home, Sans hit the pavement. A walk might help clear his head, the pressing cold coupled with the looming darkness familiar but unfortunately more unwelcome when he knew what he was leaving behind. This is as close to distancing himself from you he can kept. He could think about leaving you entirely, but after you'd admitted how much you somehow depended on him, it became impossible. 

Or maybe he's being selfish, knowing how much of you he wants to keep to himself. Sans doesn't watch where he's going, he can just teleport home if he gets lost or if it gets too late. Paps is spending the night at 'Dynes anyways, he had no one waiting for him at the apartment.

Sans reconsiders his plan on the sidewalk, your couch becoming more appealing by the second, and standing here's not helping with his resolve any.

Sans turns his head, listening with his magic. He'd walked pretty far it turns out, but that's not whats on his mind. The street is dead, a couple of dark cars, and more darkened windows with only one or two stray bulbs still yellow in their respective over head rooms. He'd not been paying attention, didn't need to this side of town, and he'd been distracted to complacency. 

"Sans!"  


His Soul quakes when it hears you, his eyes darting around in confusion when he doesn't see your own hanging around to chase away the gloom around him. "pol," he asks the night, feeling like some kind of idiot. Had he imagined that-?

"Sans!"

"what the..," he grumbles to himself, eyeballing the ally 'cross the street that he heard your voice echo out of. Every single fiber of his being is saying that this is damn weird, cliche as hell, and is sending out some serious red flags. Your voice. In an ally. At night. "i'm going to kill a fu-."

"SANS!"

Fear shoots through his Soul, and any rationality governing his actions is tossed to the way side when he activates his magic, appearing on the other side of the street as quickly as he's capable of pulling off. 

You aren't here, he doesn't see you anywhere- "SANS!" 

"POL!"

The darkness moves, a human steps out from the moldering brick, and the black clings to them in layers. They have someone in their arms, their captive's face smothered by the stretch of a bag pulled over their head, and every struggle a futile effort to escape.

Sans goes to look for your Soul, for any tell-tale damage that would impossible to miss in the confines of the core of your being, and his teeth grit hard until they hurt, " _get yo **u r  h a n d s-"**_

His magic flares in late warning. Pain explodes across his cranium from behind, and like a lamp thrown against a wall, Sans breaks, and goes out.  

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i meant this story to be 100% fluff, but ive been tempted to add some heavy stuff for a while and i was afraid that you guys were getting bored?? so the plot train rolled back in. 
> 
> See the end of the chapter for content warnings.

The echo of the monster’s body hitting the ground is unsettling. The creature isn’t as hollow as his appearance might suggest, but his makeup is hardly as solid as a human’s would be. It’s simply strange, the sound setting his attacker’s teeth on edge from behind their woolen half-mask.

“It out?”

They yank their mouth cover down, but dare not to reveal anymore of their face than necessary. “Yeah.”

The one who asked the question straightens up in the arms of their companion, pulling away roughly from the arm that had been held like a vice up until that moment. Unlike the other two in the alley, they don’t hesitate from yanking the bag over their head off, their hair in the same state of disarray that their expression is when they set their eyes on the skeleton. “You sure about that,” they ask, eyes shooting to the person still holding the bat, and back down again. As if a single second of distraction would be all the monster needed to get the drop on them. “It’s that easy.”

_“SANS!”_

The imposter flinches where they stand, shooting a glare at the friend that’d just been holding them, now holding up the recorder and mic they’d used to lure the monster into their trap. “Pretty freaking sure,” they laugh, and sure as can be, the monster doesn’t budge an inch.

Swinging the bat onto their shoulder, his attacker scowls when a loud screech fills the air, tires peeling out on asphalt to announce the arrival of their getaway vehicle.

With words untinged with visceral, they mutter into the cold air with unseen eyes trained on the monster at their feet.

“Dust to dust.”

 

The van stutters once and is gone, driving along the street for mere seconds until it disappears off screen, into the night. And from there, no one knows.

“Polaris.”

Your father’s hand is as firm as his touch, his hand heavy on your clothed shoulder, an anchor offered in the storm raging in your mind. Your skin begs to be scratched., and you hate your fear, capable as it is of rearing it’s head at a time like this when everything else in your remains still.

“We found another, ser,” a voice comes to your ears, one of the officers in his suit called to your home a mere two hours previous. In that time more strangers than had ever been in your home at once in the years since it’s purchase by your parents have filled it to the brim with groping hands and pieces of their work. Without looking you knew the officer was holding a tiny camera, barely the size of someone’s finger tip, and one to add to the growing pile next to the television propped up on your dining room table.

“Good work,” your father answers them from next to you, words measured and professional. His career-voice, your dad would call it. One he left at the door along-side the other he only used around his mother. It’s strange how much more warmth exists in one over the other, but anyone who knew his mother would probably understand.

You feel your father’s attention on you focus again when the officer departs back to work, but it’s never been completely removed since you woke that morning to your father sitting on your beside, murmuring your name.

You knew at once that something was wrong. You never would have guessed that it was Sans.

The only tell you have of how long you’ve been staring at flickering screen of the street recording is the dryness of your eyes, blinked away when your father speaks again. “I’m sorry that I let this happen.”

“Regret is a useless emotion,” you reply unbidden, noticing how thirsty you’ve become, but not capable of caring.

“But one that has its lessons,” your father finishes, and you turn your chin to see his calm expression. Calm, but set. Not offering any sort of pity or remorse, because you know your father cares a great deal for you, as well as he knows what other people would want in your position. Results, never pity.

A dozen different pairs of feet fill the air of the house, thudding along floor boards, hushing against carpets. Furniture is moved, scanned, analyzed for any other bug that may be remaining in wait to be found, and your father explains what happened.

“Sans was taken last night shortly after his time spent with you that evening. An onlooker in one of the apartments near your home reports seeing his walk down the road, his appearance drawing their notice long enough to leave a memory of him behind.”

Why had he been walking?

“The camera shows not where he was standing before crossing the road, but he enters the alley after several seconds. It’s unknown what could have drawn him there, as there are no listening devices on the security camera for the apartment complex in question.”

What could have drawn him there?

“But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that this was planned. The bugs we found in your apartment are extensive, they on the other hand can record conversation, and at the scene of the crime, they were ready to escape an instant they were finished.”

Why Sans?

“They knew I was keeping an eye on you,” your father admits again, as he has in the past. He worries, he said, and people will take any chance they can to strike out against their family. Trained staff, skeleton as it was, is something you’ve always been used to at your old home. That your father had hired the occasional body guard to check on you at random was a small leancy you had permitted when you left. “But they also knew I wouldn’t go so far as to do what they did with these cameras,” he goes on, taking up one of the small devices next to the open evidence bag on the table, the wood otherwise covered by sheets of paper. Equipment like a phone and police tape, gloves, masks, and empty containers of all sizes to hold any evidence found. “I would know if you were taken, but I wasn’t watching Sans beyond a point. The relationship between our family and the monarchy is fragile,” a sliver of softness rounds out his eyes. “And I knew you would not forgive me.”

“Thank you.”

Your father nods, once, “We’ve informed his family of what has occurred. The brother is sweeping the streets with the available guard, what cannot be found by our agents can be located by their canine unit. But the scents of the city are thick, it will take time.”

Mimicking the tilt of his head to show that you understand, your father moves past you to the living room, the only familiar face in the ocean of people around you.

It’s strange that you don’t want to scream at the mere sight of so many here at once, but ever since this started, you’ve been unsure if you’re really awake at all. Sans, taken? You saw him allude Undyne’s attacks while simultaneously protecting you from their very assualt. He’s powerful, fast. How could three humans in masks bring him down with a baseball bat?

You’d seen the thing carelessly thrown into the van before your friend was thrown in with it, Sans treated like cargo rather than a living person. But you couldn’t be surprised by that. Why would they care, after being capable of harming him? And how could you be surprised after the very same thing was done to you when you were a child?

AD’s bark breaks against the rolling conversation of the people around the house, more than one turning their head but then dismissing the dog seconds later. Your father’s attention lingers when you move to the monster at the door, the dog’s haunches planted firmly by its open mouth.

Your father doesn’t present warning when you step outside, you know better then to wonder from the scene for very far, and you wouldn’t know where to go otherwise.

AD’s claws scrape against the stone of your front steps as he descends, his downy fur fluffing in the stagnant air of the outside world. It’s bright outside given the hour, the morning air playing oddly across your senses with how rare it is that you take the chance to breathe it in.

Right now Sans should be on his way back from his job at the warehouse docks and readying himself for a nap before his shift at Grillby’s. His brother should be reminding him to eat his lunch through text, and you would be half out of bed, talking to him on the phone about his day.

_“Was work especially productive? Has Roger paid out the other end of your bet?”_

_“nah, friggin dingus still insists i used magic to win. can’t understand just cuz i don’t have muscles doesnt mean i can’t do my job.”_

_“Oh, Roger could only be jealous of those bones of yours. I’ve had my hand on your arm, Sans, there’s nothing about you that’s lacking.”_

_“p-pol, c’mon,”_ he would say, embarrassed, but not angry. He’s been growing used to your sentiments, you hope, or is merely tolerating them better. You liked to think that it makes him happy with the way they warm his bones, that warmth radiating himself red with magic, and seeping into any part of you that may ever have the fortune to be touching him at the time. Through a phone line it would make you smile no matter the case, a warmth of it’s very own swelling in your chest, and threatening to make you burst.

Your phone chimes, shattering you in your daze, and not a breath passes when you rip it out of your pocket to check your message from Sans’ phone.

_“At work. Come alone.”_

The screen creaks.

How?

It goes dark.

_How?_

You father is watching. The street is filled with parked cruisers. Your house is teeming with people.

AD barks, centering your gaze on the dog, who’s staring you with intelligence swimming in his red eyes, and when he leans his head down, a knife dropping from his jaws that had gone unseen for so long, you don’t question it. You only pocket the knife, follow him back inside, and go up to the second floor of your home, where you close your bedroom door behind you.

The others in the building completely fail to notice when you walk through the wall of the building behind it, fingers still threaded in the hair of the monster in your arms, his tongue lolling out of his jaw as he allows you to carry him out of the new building, and onto the street beyond.

 

“Sans…”

His magic hums with complaint, burning under his metacarpals, and around his ankles, where his tibia and fibula meet with the talus of his feet. The surface under him and pressing into his spine is hard, a chair with bindings around it’s legs keeping him in place. Reaching out his magic, he knows he could loosen then and remove whatever the hell is blocking his sockets, but it’s your voice that stops him.

“pol-?” His question ends in a hiss when pain surfaces in the back of his skull, directly where he was hit. An inhale of breath causes his thoughts to stutter in confusion, scents of the salt, iron, and cold air coming together to remind him of one place.

This shouldn’t have happened, but the second he’d seen you struggling in that damn alley he’d zeroed in on the bastard that was holding you hostage. Good sense went out the window when he starting worrying that you’d been hurt, but no sooner did he try to check on you did someone, a human, lay into him behind.

_stupid, stupid, stupid!_

“pol!” He shouts, grateful that at least they’d held back on the mouth gag, but no matter how hard he searches through the blinder for your Soul he can’t find that familiar light. But he’s not alone either.

They bob into sight, a couple of inverted Souls, or inverted compared to his own, jumping into his sight when his eyes flicker over them. He can’t see the bodies that house them, but there’s no mistaking the wash of pungent fear in the air.

Fear and pride.

“Looks like the bastard’s up!”

“It’s a miracle he didn’t die, how hard did you hit him, Mal?”

“You heard him, didn’t you,” the last of the Souls speak, their tone level and lot more professional sounding compared to the other two assholes they’ve got hanging around them. “He’s too strong, only intent to kill could take him out in one hit. At least, with a simple bat that seems to be the case.”

“where the fuck is pol,” Sans asks, hearing the growl barely released through his teeth when his hackles raise at exactly what was spilled by that statement. Your house his bugged, that’s all it could be. No way in hell someone’s been tailing the two of you around the town without his notice, so they had to have left shit at your house. Stars only knows when that started, and the farther back he considers it, the more he wants to fling their corpses across the room and hear them crack against the wall.

“I’m okay, Sans.”

There’s something off about your voice, and it takes him a second to get that you aren’t in the room with them. There’s an underlying static there, barely discernable, but the otherwise quiet of the place combined with his hardened listening helps him pick it up.

_must be keeping us apart so i’m kept in the dark about what’s goin’ on pol’s end. no telling how many people are there, holding a gun to their head. hell, you might not be in the same building!_

“Something tells me you’ve realized the severity of the situation,” Mal or whatever speaks up, a good few feet held between them and Sans by his estimation. “Ebott isn’t here. But they aren’t alone. The wrong move will kill them. Your wrong move. Follow our orders and nothing will be spilled. Not ash, nor dust.”

 _the_ hell-?

“yeah, and what would that be, boss,” Sans grits out, the magic contained within him vibrating with need. A need to strike out, to _maim_ , to **_kill_**. And to find you faster than their bodies had time to hit the floor.

“Stay silent. Stay still. Think of escaping, so be it. Do it, and listen to Ebott as they die miles away from your reach.”

_“the fuck do you want with pol?”_

The human’s continence doesn’t waver an inch when for that one instant he can’t stop his from breaking.

“To make them hurt. What else could there be,” they say, and it isn’t a question.

 

Piano in her ears, and piano in her throat, Mal hums along to the Dvořák’s _Humoresque_ as it jaunts along from her earbuds and into the blackness of her mind. The back of the desk chair she moved into the unused warehouse weeks ago bites into the back of her skull with the way she lays in it, arms crossed over her lap, and eyelids closed, but she’s barely aware.

So close, so close. Years of planning, and it’s nearly at an end. Polaris Ebott would die, the pain will linger until she follows after, but any trace or sound of it will be cleaned up later. No one in her family would suffer for it, not if their supporter kept their promise.

 _I want them to know,_ she sighed through her nose, pushing out the sheer promise of bliss that would bring if it happened. But it couldn’t, not if she wanted her remaining family to be safe. They didn’t deserve to suffer anymore then they had. After the mistake of one child, that of another would make the last of their line crumble into nothing.

When a body appears in the doorway to the control room as they lovingly called it, Mal half feared that whatever was coming out of their mouth was something about the monster getting killed. She’d left the other two in his holding room to do what they wanted, their bigotry towards the species a perfect outlet for the nerves they had built up while on the job, and she let them have it with the promise that he wouldn’t die.

Mal doesn’t want the monster dead. That’d mean one more innocent lost in the midst of the Ebott’s crushing affairs, but so close to the end and Mal’s capacity for caring has become frighteningly nonexistent. If it happened, she’d find a way of making up for it, but nothing will stop this from happening.

“-ost here,” is the conclusion to what they’re saying when Mal removes a bud, but that’s all she needs. Sitting up in her chair languidly, Mal peers at the few monitors still turned on after that morning’s raid of the house.

Lo and behold, movement caught her eye, and she watches silently as you step into view on one of the black and white feeds. She thinks she spies something near your feet for a moment, white and small, but then it slides between one stroke of a leg as you walk and the next, disappearing without a trace. A bug on the camera, perhaps a glitch. Whatever it was, it’s gone.

“Have fun.”

She can tell her friend is smiling without her having to turn in her chair. Instead Mal leans back, turning up the volume on her phone, replacing her the bud, and settling in.

 

The structure is tall, blanketed with rust and age, years next to the sea, and lost to neglect, it seems at a glance devoid of life. But something inside of you says otherwise, and it isn’t only the directions in your phone that tells you that you aren’t alone.

_“At the end of the row. Next to the beached cruiser. Warehouse 20B.”_

You’ve never been to the docks before, your family’s dealings not lending itself to this division of the town’s economy, and you’ve never held any interest either in visiting this section of Ebott City, but the building is pretty basic according to your limited knowledge of buildings of it’s kind.

It’s great doors face the sea, a long stretch of concrete between it and the wooden walkways hugging the water. It’s the last in a long line of many others of it’s kind, but by far appears to be the least recently used. Set high into it’s thin, metal walls are dozens of small windows, mostly cracked or left open to the elements, but there waits more the one average proportioned door on the side facing your person. Sticking out like a sore thumb is a small surveillance camera near one of the doors, and you give into the need to look straight into it’s lens. Unsmiling, face impassive, an echo of the father you left behind without notice.

He’s been blowing up your phone with calls, but you turned your phone off on the way here in the taxi. Apologies can wait, Sans can’t.

Without further hesitance you take the door inside, unfazed by the change in lighting, and not bothering to question it.

The entry room is small, with a stout desk, and the chair accompanying it missing one leg. But it’s also empty, and you continue on, the few shafts of light that filter through holes in the wall behind you heavy on your retreating back.

The next is bigger, darker, but there’s someone there, leaning next to an opening to the chamber following. They’re obviously human, and dressed head to toe in black. With a beanie, long sleeves, and cloth covering their mouth, they’re mostly nondescript, and it’s impossible for them not to see you enter.

“‘Eeeey, Ebott, ‘bout time you got here,” is their drawl, as casual as if meeting an old friend, but their brow pushes together in barely concealed irritation. Lifting themselves from the wall and removing their hands from their jean, they go to stand in front of you, and you notice that they’re entirely lacking in any sort of weapon. “

“An Ebott after saving a monster. Now that’s irony.

When their hand goes up and lays itself down on your shoulder, it’s in the same place where your father tried to comfort you. You eye their fine fingers, then slide your gaze back to them silently. “But then, your family’s has been goin’ soft for years now.” You think they must be grinning behind that mask, you can hear it as clear as day.

But what you can hear clearer is a grunt of pain from the next room. _Sans._

“Not nearly as soft as that monster-,” he stops, pupils dilating in a rush, and in the next room a round of laughter begins. The person’s hold on you loosens, and they stagger back, faltering on their feet, and outright falling when you jostle them as you pass. The weight of them crashes against the desk but you don’t look back, only aware now of the group of people hanging around the center of the large chamber echoing around you.

Sans cries out, rocking in his seat as one of the figures there throws a punch into his absent stomach. Applause follows, animal like hooting and yelling spattered throughout, and you think that when Sans lifts his wrapped head, he must say your name before it’s lost in the swelling of wind that fills your ears.  

 

_“pol? ”_

Your Soul is a wisp of color in the dark, bobbing into existence when he raises his head against the pain in his ribs. The guy who jabbed him is getting in the way, nearly concealing your approach along with the other seven or so creeps that decided to work their way over when their boss gave the okay for his pummeling.

Sans could take it, he’d had worse in the underground, but the malice in the punches and kicks these guys have been leveling are bordering on _murderous_ and he’s honestly started freaking out that he’s going to wind up dying before he can think of a way to get the two of you out of here.

But then there you are, your Soul as near to recognizable as his brother’s, and coming to rescue him all on it’s own. Because you aren’t bound, and no one’s leading you to him, floating alone as you are. And when the others see you, shouts of welcome ring out,

“Polaris Ebott! Long time no see!”

“Hey, rich-britches!”

“Prodigal heir, here at last!”

welcome that putters into questioning amusement

“Why so serious? Where’s that freak smile of yours?”

“Are they carrying a knife?”

“Is that-?”

to confusion

“Is that-?”

anger

“Grab them! Get the knife!”

“What-what the hell would-?”

“Whoa there-”

fear

Someone screams, Sans jerks in his chair, it’s legs scraping against the ground but the sound it lost when someone else yells

Feet scuffle against the concrete, Sans yells your name, and it chokes in his throat as Souls move across his vision

Numbers are dropping, HP decreasing with each fractured cry

Something breaks, a stick? Bone?

 _“Shoot them!”_ a spattering of gunfire, he’s only heard it in movies, but there’s no mistaking it. Metal is punctured, glass shatters, and by the sounds of it, the gun goes from aiming straight to above their heads

_“Run!”_

_“pol!”_

The silence drops like lead against his shoulders and he can’t stand staring at a bunch of inert Souls in the dark any longer. Jolting to his feet, his magic snaps the ropes with a single tug, and he rips the fold off his skull, eyelights snagging onto your shape as you stand motionless in front of him.

His Soul freezes in his chest.

Red.

Red. Red. Redredredredred

It’s everywhere the floor the bodies on the ground on their ripped clothing on his shorts red on your hands red on your pants red on your skin red on your hand red on the knife you're holding red on your cheek red in your pupils when you turn your head and look _dir e c t l y  a t  h i m_

“What the _fuck?”_

Sans’ startles, seeing for the first time the new human that’s entered the room. No, definitely not new. He knows that Soul from earlier, _Mal,_ and the human glaring at you, their raged tinged with horror.

“You,” they utter, stepping further into the room, and what they say next comes in the shape of a roar: _“YOU’VE RUINED EVERYTHING!”_

Your body sways on its feet, as if you might drop, but then you're running

Sans takes back the step that nearly knocked him against the chair a moment earlier, hand going up as if to somehow stop you from propelling yourself towards the other human in the room

But faster than he’s capable of pulling himself together, you’re on them, one fist bunching into their shirt, and the other rearing back, wielding that knife you got from who knows where over Mal’s snarling face.

_“Kill me! Kill me like you did her, do it!”_

Your Soul trembles.

_“Destroy your family just like you did mine! You coward!”_

 

The loosening of your grip is slow, but the fall of the knife is fast, it’s blade clattering against the concrete on the floor next to the two of you.

Her face is ugly fury, but she is beautiful, and it’s that sight that sucks the air from your lungs.

Cheeks round, hair in tight, dark curls that frame her head like the sun rising on her shoulders. You’ve never seen her so enraged, but it’s her very existence that shakes you to your core.

Whatever it is that has been fueling you until now, it’s drains from every fiber of your being, and you’re barely aware of the sound so similar to claws skittering against the floor before it disappears.

There’s only her, scowling, vicious, _alive_

“ _V_ _ivian?_ ”

 _“Malika,”_ she spits.

_Oh._

You look again at her face, seeing the lack of freckles under her chin, nor the faint scar just under her left ear. _Malika’s_ left ear. It’s been years since you’ve seen her, it would make sense for her to look so much like her older sister.

Vivian is still dead.

Flashing a shaky glance to your side you see it again, the knife, and examine your position over her prone form. When did you get here? What-?

Blood. There’s blood on your hands you see as you bend your fingers. And on your arms…Malika’s quick breathing reaches you and you jump up, stumbling back until you can steady yourself on your feet. Malkia scrambles back in turn, gaining distance, but you’re taking in the sheer amount of red mottling your clothing

There’s a groan behind you that you don’t recognize, snapping you into the awareness that it isn’t only you and Malika in the room.

You can’t breathe.

There are others, so many others on the ground, twisted people in various states of agony, holding themselves, or laying sprawled out, but all clearly wounded.

_Did I?_

You look to your hands and to them again. You’re completely unharmed but the knife, you’d been holding that knife that AD had given you only seconds ago.

 _Did I do this_ , a small part of you whimpers from inside you, but you already know the truth, Malika’s command repeating itself over and over again though she’s long since fallen silent.

And there’s Sans.

Sans, standing there, eye sockets dark, and hands clenched at his sides. He doesn’t approach you, you could mistake him for dead if he weren’t standing, and there’s nothing more in the world that you want to do right then other then hear his voice.

“Sans,” you speak, composure breaking with the near plea that escapes your throat, and there’s no missing it.

That flinch, faint, but so very, very real.

Sans is afraid of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: violence, blood, dissociation, death mention, strong language, murder accusation


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't get over how patient you guys are for this story, i'm lucky i have such tolerable readers.

_ “You have to feel it when you play. It isn’t about making some posh music for someone else to enjoy, it’s about letting everything out. Your anger. Your frustration. Your beauty. If someone else happens to appreciate it, well, lucky for them, then.” _

_ Vivian. _

It’s cold outside. 

Snow that once stuck to the concrete, left to lay where it fell since the winter began, has been torn asunder by vehicles and people. 

Emergency vehicles, damage control, police, and first responders.

That’s where you are now, sitting on the edge of an ambulance. Your legs fall over the side of it’s back carriage, and a blanket has been provided to you to hold back traces of shock. The worst of the shaking is gone, shivers no longer dancing over every inch of your skin, but no one dares reach out to touch you to smooth the remainder away. 

Your check up with the paramedics was a complicated one with your phobia blocking their ministrations. You were required to pry open your own eye lids so they could shine light against their retinas, and the paramedics wore gloves the entire time although they never reached out to touch you after your father’s first warning. 

You have to thank him for this, you want to thank him for it, but your throat is clogged with shame.

The shame of being a broken child. 

Your parents are mere inches away from you now, but your dad has said his apologies. 

_ “I’m sorry we couldn’t get here sooner.” _

As if they knew where to look.

_ “I’m sorry this happened.” _

It was never their fault.

_ “I’m sorry I don’t know how to help.” _

At least you’re both here, but the sentiment is as difficult to utter as the remainder. 

And they are here. Unable to reach for you, to comfort, William and Elliot Ebott stand like physical shields against the world. It’s only the three of you, and this world, watching on, staring when they think no one is looking. But you can’t blame them as they do their work of swarming the warehouse, gathering evidence, and carrying out the bodies of victims that lay in wait inside.

Your victims. 

_ How did this happen? _

Under the hum of traffic, your thoughts race like electricity upon malfunctioning power lines, every frayed cable ready to snap, and potentially hurt.

How did you find yourself here? How did you incapacitate twelve people?

After the incident, you remembered all that had happened. 

You remember reading the text and arriving at the warehouse carrying AD’s knife. Using it to cut through the flesh of the first person to halt you at the door, and moving on to the next the moment they drew too close to you in the main room where they kept Sans. After that second encounter, you had to be more proactive, and be the one to move first. 

They tried to fight back, to shoot, to run, but you wouldn’t let them. 

And you don’t regret it. 

Because you also do remember Sans, tied up in that chair, his eye sockets covered, and pain causing his teeth to split wide when someone--a someone you slashed across the abdomen cleanly-- had dared to throw a fist into his stomach.

You would never regret making them feel pain, just as you had wanted those people who killed Vivi to hurt the same way. The entire time your heart was beating with rage, although you could feel that your expression was placid as a lake. 

What you do regret is who orchestrated the event. 

_ “Kill me like you did her!” _

And that Sans bore witness to the mayhem you had created. 

_ I’ve lost it.  _

Your hands go from between your legs to covering your face, blocking out the remnants of the tears on your dad’s lashes, and the stone ground beneath your feet. 

_ I’ll never have it again. Not after what he saw. _

His warmth. His comfort. His very company. 

You wish that you would have spent more time with your grandmother, beyond that one summer before Vivian. Maybe then you could hide how you feel, perhaps she would be proud to know that despite what had occurred, you did not reveal a sliver of fear. 

But it was only one summer, and that isn’t enough to hold back your sobbing when it finally tears through your shoulders.

 

“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING! YOU COULD HAVE TORN THROUGH THEM LIKE WET PAPER!”

Papyrus hasn’t stopped ranting since he rolled up to the courthouse, going so far as to knock away the human crew of paramedics out of his way to get him. The humans had just been standing there anyways, too scared to approach and do their job, but Sans couldn't be more grateful.

He didn’t want to be touched. 

“WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING THROUGH YOUR MIND WHEN YOU LET A BUNCH OF WORTHLESS SCUM LAY A FINGER ON YOUR PERSON?”

Sans’ eye lights dart away from his brother, trying to come up with some excuse that could get him to calm the hell down, but that’s not happening. Sans knows all the signs of a Paps on the verge of a meltdown: the shaking arms, the clinched fists, and bared fangs. The only thing that’s new is the sweat on his skull, but Sans doesn’t have time to be thinking of that new development.“hey, bro-.”

“DON’T YOU BRO ME! AS FAR AS I’M CONCERNED, YOU’RE NO BROTHER OF MINE!”

_ okaywhat  _

“p-paps! cool it!”

Papyrus swats away his held up hands like flies, and Sans twitches at the contact,  _ more than a little freaked out now _ , but he doesn’t back off when Papyrus is practically in his face: “WHAT KIND OF BROTHER MAKES THEIR SIBLING WORRY LIKE THAT! I CALLED YOU ALL NIGHT! I TOLD YOU TO BE CAREFUL WHEN WALKING AFTER DARK AND TO USE YOUR RIDICULOUS TELEPORTATION TO COME STRAIGHT HOME AS SOON AS THE SUN FELL, BUT DID YOU LISTEN?”

Sans’ arms are limp at his sides. Is he hearing right?

“THE ONE THING IT COULD BE PROVEN USEFUL FOR, KEEPING YOU OUT OF DANGER, AND YOU REFUSE TO USE WHAT YOU HAVE AT YOUR DISPOSAL! I KNOW HOW STRONG YOU ARE, SANS-.”

“paps-.”

“SO W-WHAT IN AS-ASGORE’S NAME-.”

Full blown panic hits his Soul when he sees what he think he’s seeing.  _ “bro!” _

“P-POSSESSED YOu To, To-,” Papyrus’ chokes on the magic that’s pooled in his throat, and is spilling over his eye sockets in twin streams of red. He tries to speak through the wetness, but his words only come out as weak huffs accompanied by the shaking of his fists. 

Sans does what right, what he knows.

He reaches up, and pulls down his brother. 

Papyrus goes for his throat, his long face shoving it’s way between his shoulder and skull, and not in the least bit hiding his wailing. His arms can be strong as steel when wrapped around the wrong person, but Paps is too weak, holding on his very best isn’t enough to hurt Sans. Not too much, anyways. Only a little. 

But Sans doesn’t complain. He holds onto his brother and lets him cry, hot magic burning around his eyes at the sound of it. He made his brother cry, and like every time before, he hates himself for it. 

 

Your head shoots up from your hands when you hear it, Soul reverberating in shock when you see the source of the sound from afar. Sans is standing in the middling of a crowd of turned faces, and with him Papyrus remains, only know the great skeleton is stooping to his brother’s level, screaming with agony. 

Fear reverberates through your Soul when you think, for a terrible moment, that he could be hurt. But onlookers make no move to draw closer to the two of them, and the way Sans goes to hold his brother in a manner that’s entirely familiar, you realize with a shudder that he is hurting.

_ “Destroy your family like you did mine!” _

It’s happening again. You can hear Malika yelling in the back of your head, but her voice is small, and tinny, forming words no child should ever utter and you know she never said that, not at the funeral, and not any other time you saw each other after _. _

More than once her family visited to speak to yours, to share condolences and support each other in a way few of the seven do. But Vivian had been all that was required for that support to wither and fade. After a while, the contact ended. Something you had been grateful for, and yet bereft over at the same time.

The final image you had of Malika before today was one of her at the bottom of your family’s staircase, her parents by the door and giving one final expression of farewell. You’d remained at the head of the stairs, looking on, with only Malika there to meet your eyes. Her own had been hard, her mouth a flat line of impassivity. Neither of you said a word in greeting or goodbye, and that was how it ended. 

But your mind doesn’t care that years have gone by. It takes her cries and warps them frighteningly until they fit into the mouth of the woman that stared you down as a cruiser took her away. Eyes of stone and lips a thin line. You know what that face means now. 

_ “YOU’VE RUINED EVERYTHING!” _

“This is _ your _ fault!”

Your attention jolts to the movement of a figure that’s suddenly blocking your view of the brother’s, and your parents are roughly pushed aside in a fit of muscle and fang. Undyne’s hand flies up in a grip of strength, yanking you from the back of the ambulance in one swift movement and lifting you aloft until your feet fail to scrape the ground. 

_ “Put them down,”  _ an officer yells. Guns are cocked, but you see none of them, there is only her predatory eye cutting into your person, her claws wanting to cut deeper still.

“If Sans hadn’t been so stupid as to ally with an Ebott none of this shit would have happened,” is her snarl, and you have no refute for it. 

You halt your unconscious attempt to grab hold of her fist, and it’s easy, letting go of that instinctual need to protect yourself. Instead only letting your limbs weaken into uselessness. 

“We looked for hours for Papyrus’ brother, and what do we find? Who’s the reason why he was taken? Why he couldn’t fight back? _ It was you,”  _ she shakes you, spittle flying to catch against your face, but you barely react save for the flinch of an eye. Instead you listen, and you let it happen. _ “ _ I told Papyrus to watch his and his brother’s back when they started cohorting with you! But the second I try to do something about it, you manage to do the same damn thing with the queen!” She shakes you, fabric ripping until her claws have pierced though. “ _ Nothing  _ good comes from befriending a human! You’d sooner lock us all away with the rest of the trash-! 

“Unhand them.”

Undyne’s mouth hangs open, her every inch has grown still, save for her one eye. It rolls in it’s socket, centering on the figure at her side, where your father stands with a pistol pressed against her temple. 

Quick as silver, her teeth slip into a grin, and you see what must be a sort of carnal delight spark within her vision at the sight next to her: “Or what, Ebott? You kill me and start a war?”

“Danger is removed from my child, and you from our presence,” your father replies, as cool as steel, with edges ready to pierce and bleed. 

You’ve not seen that image since that fateful summer, but it’s an apt reminder of your father’s house words: Morana draws no quarter. 

“Whatever else should follow is of less concern,” he finishes, pulling back the hammer. 

Papyrus’ crying has stopped. None of the officers, your father’s wards or other police, move. Your dad stands by, frowning, but making no effort to stop your father. He of all people would know what happens when someone stands between Elliot and a person he cares dearly for. 

Undyne is not intimated. No. Her grin is only sharpening. You see it, as close as you are to those jaws, thinning at the edges. Will she, won’t she.

You will never know. 

“Undyne.”

You drop.

Surprise nearly let you collapse to the ground. The solid, frozen weight of your legs catches you, by some miracle, and sends you staggering back to where you had been perched. Undyne is flexing her hand, but it’s fallen back to her side, and something that couldn’t be, but can only be shame, crawls across her visage.

It disappears, her spine straightens, and the guard captain falls into salute at the command of her king.

 

Elliot Ebbot holsters their weapon with complete complacency, meeting Asgore eye for eye without fear or regret. But he would expect nothing less. Drawing ranks around their harassed child, the king is not spared the sight of you watching him with parted lips and unbelieving pupils, a significant difference to the expression you had been wearing seconds prior. 

“The officials tell me that Polaris is unharmed,” he speaks to your parents, although he does not remove his gaze from your person immediately. Your mouth closes, regret swallowing those twin spheres that he does not answer to vocally. 

“It’s what the reports will tell you,” William is the one to speak first, leading the conversation as he is want to, but Elliot remains attentive. Ready. 

William glances at their child, the pain in his Soul obvious for all to see, and for once in a millennia he finds himself understanding the heart of an Ebbott. But then his eyes have returned to the king, and there’s a plea there that is anything but hesitant. “Asgore, my husband saw the footage.”

“As did I,” Asgore nods, and falls into silence. He can see the pulse of the man in his throat, fluttering fast like the wings of an insect. Careful breeding could not keep this human from bursting at the seams from getting ahead of himself, not unless, of course, it includes the matter of his brood. 

Turning his head to his guard, to Undyne, he delivers an unspoken message, and she departs. But not without daring to nearly turn her head to the human child, and nearly just stopping the motion. Nearly. Her eyes slide under his as she steps away, shoulders high, fists clinched, and gait steady towards the other monsters on the premises. 

“Polaris,” he begins, and continues when you do not respond. “Where is the dog?”

“I don’t understand,” you say in question, raising your head a tad more now that you’ve been presented with a distraction. “Do you mean AD?” His lack of a negative spurs you forward, a soft line drawing between your brow when you confusion lingers. “I don’t know. He followed me here, but after that…” 

He isn’t surprised. Turning to Elliot, he doesn’t hide that fact. “Your child will visit me at my home as requested,” and he peers down to you one final time before his departure. “I'm interested in what you will think of my collection of yellow flower teas.”

His cloak flaps behind him as he turns, and strides away, catching your soft, “Yes, your majesty,” with ease. 

 

“Request?”

Elliot sighs in his throat. 

“Pol-star,” Will hunches down to face you, reminding him much of the years when his husband would do the same when you were very, very small. “I know you value your privacy, we both do, but in the meantime the family home is open if you need it. All of your things are in the same place…”

The manner in which Will trails off, Elliot does not need to see you to know how you’re responding. All in the same place, untouched, unchanged. Neither of them could grip the nerves required to make that change: to redecorate, to move on. Without you there it would not have the desired effect, it would not help in your recovery, Elliot knows that because he’s lived it. 

“I’m sorry.” There it is, after a pause, and Elliot sees Will’s shoulders wilt before his love catches themselves. It is fortunate that you blinked away for that small, finitesimal space of time, but that’s all that would be required for you to falter, and fall back to square one. 

“It’s alright,” Will speaks up, all smiles, and genuine, parental affection. “When you’re ready.”

You nod subtly, unsatisfied with your own answer, and Elliot decides that he will not stand there. He will not wait until after this matter is finished. Waiting, it doesn’t always lead to the best outcome. 

“Polaris,” he speaks. Will shifts to the side to allow him to take center stage, capturing the focus of the person that holds so many of his physical characteristics. Elliot was afraid as you grew older and into a body so like his own. But by the grace of circumstance and one of the greatest gifts William had ever given him was a child with a smile that resembles sunshine incarnate. 

“I know it is not your home, not any longer. Not while the memory holds fast,” Elliot continues on after the tightening around your eyes reappears. He must. 

“I understand, as I would understand if you feel as though you have no home now. I did not have my own until I met your dad, and, more so still, until you came into the world.” There is no suspicion in your gaze. No doubt. Elliot did not make the mistake twice of hiding what his childhood was like, and you remain as one of three others in this entire plane that know it’s story nearly start to finish.

“It may take time to find it, whether it be in the flat where you spend your days, or someone else you have not yet come to properly know. But know that should you decide to make new memories, we can be there to help shape them.” He wishes he could take your hands in his, and press them to his heart, above his Soul to rest. A place where so often when you would many, many days in his arms, developing the ability to speak, but born with the power to laugh, you would rest your head. 

But it is too soon for that, he can see it. 

“As I know there are others that exist that would do the same in our position.”

Your eyes skate over his shoulder, a momentary lapse in the concentration you have patiently given to him thus far. Elliot does not need to turn his head or ask, and the renewed anguish he is given privy to answers what he assumed since you first spoke of the monster online. Lips devoid of radiance but your words striking like vehement fire.

And, then, Elliot made a decision.

_ I will not let you hide, as I did.  _

“Fa-father,” you protest when he stands fully, your fingertips barely brushing the folds of his coat as he begins his stride in the direction of your friends. In the direction of what you need. 

 

He failed. 

Papyrus has grown silent, mouth set in a warbling, grim line, but neither has he run off to submit Sans to what he deserves. Sans had tried to tell Paps what he wanted, that he’d been afraid of getting Pol killed if he did the wrong thing. That he is  _ so fucking sorry _ for making him worry, but anything and everything he comes up with sounds like shit in his head. How the hell does he make up for what’s happened that wouldn’t inevitably make things worse? 

There’s a reason why he and Paps are so distant from each other. Trying to fix things before had led to this point, and now he’s afraid there’s no going back. No matter how much in his dark, twisted Soul seeing Paps crying over him made him feel better. Maybe it meant he really does care, after all this time. 

Maybe there’s a chance.

He just doesn’t know how to take it.

Then there’s you. There’s no missing it when Undyne shows up to try and wreck your shit and he was already  _ well _ on his way to summoning an attack when one of your pop’s lifted a weapon and pointed it at the fish’s head. He has to hand it to them, the more stoic of the two sure as hell has some guts, and Sans hadn’t exactly been gunning for him to back off. 

Then Asgore swept into the scene and that, as they say, was that.

Sans magic was left thrumming and ready to fly when Undyne cut a path in Pap’s direction, but the monster was too focused on his brother to give him the time of day. Say what you want about their rivalry, about scars traded, or words dealt, but those two have the sort of friendship he could never envy. Or want. Or deal with beyond tolerating. 

Seeing as Undyne isn’t about to crack your skull in and with only her friendship with his brother stopping him from pulling her into the earth, Sans ignores there hushed discussion in favor of centering a socket from you across the pavement. 

Hell, he can’t stop watching you for an instant, can he? 

But he failed you, too, didn’t he.

He was an idiot. An absolute moron. If he’d been smart for one second he could have taken out those bastards faster than you would have had any chance of showing up at the place. But instead he dallied. He’d sat shivering, cussing up a storm about the fat lot of nothing it turned out that he didn’t need to worry about.

If he hadn’t waited, you wouldn’t have been hurt. Your Soul wouldn’t be in the state it is, and, now, you can’t even cross the distance between the two of you to say hello.

He doesn’t deserve to take that first step. To apologize. Knowing you, you’d take it. You’d give your forgiveness in spades, and...it doesn’t get to be that easy. Not for him. 

“Come back for round two,” Undyne grits out, and Sans is given absolutely no further warning before he notices that one of your parents is mere inches from his face.

The look Elliot Ebbot gave Undyne...now that he’s seen what he saw in the warehouse...you’ve never looked more alike. 

“Sans, that is your name.”

Not exactly a question, but, “uh, yeah.” He’s nervous. Holy hell, he’s nervous. Why the heck do your parents keep confronting him like this-?

“What are your intentions with my child?”

  
  
  


what 

“.....i…”

Elliot does not look deterred, the human not frowning nor grinning at his bumbling attempt to grab at some semblance of intelligence.

Somehow.

He’s got nothing.

“uh.”

“My child saved your life.”

He’s still drawing a blank. Papyrus drags a hand down his face, it’s one helluva trip. 

“I ask that you do something that I cannot,” the human, your father, goes on, and mercifully this isn’t the end of it. “They think this is their fault.”

_ what.  _

“That you blame them.”

**_what?_ **

“Convince them otherwise.”

“B-BROTHER!”

Running isn’t fast enough. ‘porting it is, and he’s in front of you faster than the human police have a chance to wave their weapons in his direction. Your dad gives a muffled scream at his sudden appearance, but Sans’ doesn’t care. 

He only cares about you, and now that he’s this close, he can see you properly. 

The red rim of your eyes, those irises returned to their normal hue, but your cheeks devoid of color despite the cold of the outside world. Your pupils narrow at his presence, a sign of fear as opposed to the blown open darkness that has fascinated him every time before this. 

“Sans?”

thank the stars. It’s nice, not hearing you afraid, or sad. It’s not your usual bubbly happiness, but it’s something closer to that and he can take what he can get. 

Sans knows that compared to a couple of people that have raised you since birth, there’s not a single damn thing he should be able to do in their stead.

But there is at least one, and he takes advantage of it with everything it has to offer. 

Flinging his arms around you, as Papyrus did to him, Sans pushes your face into his chest, and buries his into your hair as much as thick skull will allow itself to be smothered.

He should have done this the second he saw you, and Sans can only regret not doing it sooner. He can’t regret the sinking of his bones into yours, the way they so naturally relax when existing so close to you, and it’s only your tears soaking his shirt that remind him that not everything is as alright as his Soul wants to believe. 

“wanna get out of here?”

Movement of your head against his sternum tells him all he needs to know, but he plays it safe and shoots a raised brow bone at your dad. The human frowns. The nods, his smile returning soft as he gives in. 

Permission granted to fuck the hell out, Sans calls on his magic, and just like that, you’re outta there. 

 

The youngest brother is near to screaming at the top of his magical repository, rage built up like a dam ready to burst when Elliot blocks his chance to run in the direction of his husband. 

“Papyrus, is it?”

The tall skeleton’s neck snaps to his person, but Elliot waits, unwavering as the monster grinds his teeth.

“EBOTT.”

“Rather than abscond after our family, I ask that you remain to hear explanation.”

“EXPLANATION? AND WHAT POSSIBLE EXCUSE COULD YOU HAVE FOR YOUR SPAWNLING FOR HAVING PLACED MY BROTHER IN SUCH UNNECESSARY DANGER?”

“What happened in the warehouse, for their sake, and the sake of our species. However of lesser importance one is towards the other, I will tell you what happened to Polaris.” 

Papyrus eye sockets narrow. The captain of the guard is ready to interject, teeth open to argue against it entirely. But Papyrus’ arm flies up, hand splayed, and he halts his infuriated friend in their tracks. 

“FOR SANS’ SAKE,” he seethes. “I’M LISTENING.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elliot wouldn't let me, Pol, or Sans sit on our tail bones and let this drag on for longer then he needs to, but if there's anyone more stubborn then an Ebott it's their spouse


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by Library Tapes, most importantly, "Fragment III" for it's first part.

The void is limitless. For every speck of matter that exists, there is is the space around it, holding it buoyant in it’s omniscient, yet sometimes discernible presence. It extends itself through the endless, reaching stars, but so too does it lie suspended, separating infinitesimally every molecule that makes up a physical being. 

When this void that Sans has spoken of, drawing lines across your palm while sitting next to you in the confines of your home, falls away from around the two of you, it never truly leaves. It is in the air around, and, worse yet, the boundary that marks you as separate individuals, no matter how hard you wish to press yourself into him, and to eliminate that space forever. 

“pol,” comes his voice, a baritone with edges tinged in rust, it’s growl a comforting reminder of his presence that has always been so impossible for you ignore. You don’t know how much he may want it, to hold onto you for a moment longer, but you grant him reprieve he does not ask for, and step away. 

“Where are we,” you ask. After a tick, you feel his eyes leave you, and glance around the gloom of the interior you’ve found yourself in: “home.”

The room smells of dust, and there is little in remainder of the lives that once lived here: save for a single couch pressed against the wall to your left, every other surface and inch of flooring is bare. No furniture, no picture frames, or even shelving. It’s entirely empty, if it were not for the staircase leading to the second floor, the archway leading to the next room, and the door, you would never guess it to be a living room. 

Lastly, there is also a window, it’s blinds left open, and what sparse light that filters through catches and shapes the gently falling movement of snowflakes in dead air. There shadows, small and lonely despite their numbers, are flecks of darkness across the skull of your companion, melting into the bleakness of your surroundings and swallowed up by the cold. 

“We’re Underground,” you must ask, approaching the window and peering into the “outside” world. There is as much to view through the glass as there is inside, the dim glow of the snow spread out across a stretch of road that cuts across the yard, and settling itself in thick clumps upon the branches of what appear to be pine trees with bark of the deepest black. 

The sound of Sans steps across the wooden floor betrays his movements, but you don’t turn your head until the creaking of a door gives itself away. 

Sans has wandered into the dining room, as you dub it given it’s close proximity to the kitchen, and you go to stand in the archway as he busies himself with a cupboard. You’re given a fleeting chance at seeing the black and white tile of the kitchen floor, and an L-shaped countertop before he finishes his quick errand. 

“‘ere,” he says, holding in his arms a knitted, thick blanket. He tosses it over your shoulders in a single movement, covering up the thin fabric of the blanket given to by the paramedics, and draws it in close under your chin until you’ve taken the ends between your hands. “asgore had the power turned off when everyone moved out; warmer down here then up top, but you can still get sick,” Sans tells you, and his continued concern for your comfort despite what only just occurred quiets you further.

“Thank you.”

Sans’ grunt of affirmation is the only sign that he heard, and with that he leads you back to the living room, you steps taking a few considering seconds to follow after. When he sinks down onto the couch with a sigh, it’s amazing that dust does not kick up, but you're slow to join him. 

“Why did you bring me here?”

“uh,” Sans flinches out of his exasperation, growing rigid. “figured they’d find us at your place, and paps at mine. thought you’d rather be alone so,” he shrugs, obviously uncertain of himself. “you’d rather i leave or take you someplace else…”

“No,” you break the lingering silence, eyes dropping to your lap. The blanket is frayed, but gathers warmth like a person’s embrace around your shoulders. “There is no where else. And I want you to stay, please. If that is...okay.”

“it was my idea in the first place.” You see his lights dart away when you at last look up, his expression hesitant. “why wouldn’t i?”

Your brow furrows softly, the first break in your composure since you had begun crying earlier. “You were there? You saw what I did in the warehouse, Sans.”

“slick i’ll be honest with ya, i’m not sure what i saw,” Sans speaks up against you, surprising you further. “bunch of assholes with guns threatened to take you out and you got there first.”

“”Assholes with guns?” Sans, there were more than ten people there!”

“you defended yourself, pol! look, i don’t get how you did it but you were defending yourself. you wanna know how i wanna react-?” He turns his body towards you, looming over you, and you only lean back marginally to continue to meet his gaze.  _ “you freaking scared me, pol!” _

“I-,” you try, but your words have stopped with your heart: everything you were afraid of is being confirmed right before your eyes.

_ “undyne! asgore! that damn dog- _ every time i turn around some bastard is at your throat trying to get ‘cha!”

Your Soul shudders.  _ Wait, this-. _

“in your own  _ freaking _ home you can’t be safe,” he practically shouts, hands turning into fists, and you sink slowly back in his direction. “if i hadn’t of been a complete moron and let them get the jump on me then _ this,”  _ he flails his hands jerkily in your direction, taking in your obviously unkempt state. “wouldn’t have happened!”

“Are you  _ blaming _ yourself-?”

“of course i’m blaming myself! i promised i’d protect what’s mine and i can’t even do that right!”

Sans becomes statue like, a skeleton trapped in rigor mortis in front of your very person, and you blink as you try to process once again what he’s said: “What’s yours?”

“i, uh,” his eye lights reappear to dance around the room, trying to find some way out although he does not visibly move an inch to escape.

“Sans-,” you ask with a frown, tilting your head, and your companion is flailing again, only much more wildly now, and you watch him, the both of you caught in twin feelings of bewilderment. 

“ _ my friend!  _ you're a  _ friend,  _ pol, that means you’re mine-!” He stops both his arms and what’s he’s saying, clutching his face, and gritting his teeth tight. “freaking hell, forget it!”

Settling back down into the ragged cushion underneath you, you breathe out, but allow the matter to drop. Somewhat. “Who made you make this promise, Sans?”

He doesn’t drop his hands, going quiet, and it’s left to you to only guess until he cracks. “My father? My dad? You met in the park, did he say something? Did my father threaten you before-?”

“ain’t nothin’ like that,” Sans argues, revealing his face, and the frustration it holds, its presence making you regret but not take back your line of questioning. “didn’t…” he sighs again, hands lose in his lap as he peers towards the carpet. “didn’t make any promises to your parents, nothin’ but sayin’ i wouldn’t hurt ya, anyways. the protecting thing...that was all me.”

“...we talked about this, Sans.”

“yeah, n’ i remember tellin’ ya you gotta deal with it.”

“I don’t understand.”

The weight of his attention returns, but you can’t find it in yourself to meet it. 

“I don’t understand how you could see me hurt people and not be afraid.”

Sans hums a response, causing you to shiver, and you pull the blanket closer to your skin to chase away the remainder it’s effect. “the night we got back from grillby’s, i told you i’ve done stuff i’m not proud of.”

You examine the pathway from his lap to his throat, admiring faintly the thick curve of his jaw, the arch of his cheekbones, and into the deep, endless night of his sockets. “i’d be a hypocrite ten times over if i was scared of you for that,” he chuckles, the malleability of his bone crinkling ever so much around his eyes. “have you met you, pol? it’s impossible for me to wanna run away from ya’.” 

You smile despite yourself, tired, but unable to suppress how utterly...relieved you are with this confession. “I was always terrible at being intimidating,” you admit yourself, sinking into the back of the couch and rubbing your cheek against it’s almost bald texture. 

“don’t know if i’d say that,” Sans laughs himself, ever so much. “those guys were pretty freaked out back there.”

“Did any of them die,” you ask, half into the slope of the furniture next to your mouth. “Did I kill someone, Sans?”

“...nah.”

You blink up at him, and he elaborates with a shake of his head, “saw their souls back there as they were bein’ carted away, they were all accounted for. beat the hell up, unconscious, sure. but not gone yet.”  

“Did they hurt you?”

 

When the blindfold was off and Sans could see your face in the warehouse, he hadn’t expected the glowing red of your eyes, burning with magic, and staring straight into his Soul. Whatever rage you may have been feeling then he couldn’t see. It was nothing but a blank, steady focus, like you were doing a job, not cracking skulls. 

But he sees it now, faint around the curve of your eyelids, echoing in the steady, wariness of your gaze. You’re distracted but he knows you're listening, and he thinks he’s got it figured out what you might do if he said yes. 

The Underground raises a monster with the strict firmness of a spiked gauntlet. You mess up, you get hurt, but you learn, and, in doing so, you survive. Kill or be killed, if the time comes, you defend yourself, or you expect nothing less than death. But no matter how harsh things got, it didn’t mean that monsters always actively sought to destroy themselves in brawls or liquor, the unforgiving environment of the cave system or the people that inhabited it themselves. When you found something soft, you hung onto it. You cherished it. That was one of the reasons why when he met you, and continued to get to know you, he found out that he doesn’t want to let go. 

He hasn’t met anyone as kind as you are in a long while. 

Sans doesn’t want to see you hurt, but down here, in his home, having someone that wanted to protect you was definitely rare. It was just as cherished, something to be as afraid of losing, as it was to be appreciated it. Nah, Sans doesn’t want to lose you, but damn if that near murderous need to make sure no one laid a finger on him didn’t burn him up inside. 

“heh, don’t worry about me, slick,” he rumbles out, raising one of his hands and bringing it to the slope of your chin, cradling the curve of your jaw against his bone as his thumb draws across the smoothness of your chilled skin. Your eyes remind him that the two of you...you’re very much alone right now. Nothing but a beat up couch and miles of solitude to worry about. 

Maybe if he weren’t him, he’d ask you if you would mind it, if he bared his Soul for only you to see.

“gonna take more than a weak punch to do me in,” he finishes, not knowing how much you’d seen, and hoping it was hardly anything to sniff about. If was truth enough, he’d taken worse from the kid in the past, and his shirt hid the worst of the bruising: like blood magic pools where the most of the damage is done, healing as quickly as it can. He’s never been a fast healer, but he’s a pretty good at bullshitting himself. 

“Sans,” you chide him, but don’t pull away, making his teeth curve up more. Okay, maybe not as good with you around, but he’s not saying a word. 

You close your eyes, stopping any argument you’re about to say in it’s tracks, and he takes his chance at tugging you into his arms. Your eyes go wide, but once you’ve landed against his chest, he reveals in the feeling of your burrowing in deeper.

_ not exactly up there with sharing souls but this...i can’t get tired of. _

“what was that, back there,” he asks you, trying to keep his head on straight, although his magic is begging for more. Nothing new there, just harder to ignore sometimes. “frisk told me you humans don’t have magic, but i got a feelin’ you aren’t exactly leadin’ the life of a secret agent. Or assassin. or something.”

Your chuckle gets caught up in the fabric of his coat, but he doesn’t miss it. “what! papyrus used to dig that stuff,” he says, his excuse sheepish, and a tiny bit curious. Maybe he still likes that stuff, who knows? Sans hasn’t dared to peek in his room and look for those ‘figs of his bro’s in years. 

_ speaking of, he’s gonna kill me when we get back. _

“I don’t know,” you reply, turning your head so he can hear you clearly, and Sans looks down, unhappy about the redness of your nose...though it’s kinda cute, too. “My parents, they weren't as shocked by what happened as I expected them to be.”

“whaddya mean?”

“When Asgore approached us, he said something that makes me think they were somehow prepared for this to happen.”

Sans’ grip curls into the folds of the blanket he gave you, an old relic from Paps’ days of hand sewing whatever material they could find. “ _ asgore knew this would happen _ ?”

“I don’t know,” your eyes narrow, not at him, but this whole storm that’s apparently been brewing since way before those human bastards clocked him one in that alleyway. “He said I would go to him, as “requested”. And he asked about AD, why would he care about my dog, Sans,” you lift yourself up to ask him this, but Sans’ doesn’t have-

Wait.

“where was ad in all this?”

You blink, befuddled by his question, but he needs to know. Something’s niggling at the edge of his subconscious, a memory of a memory, and he’s gotta get a hold of it why it’s still there.

“He followed me there. But afterwards, I lost track of him. Why, Sans? Why would AD be important?”

Sans stares at the couch, trying to think. It couldn’t be, could it? He hasn’t learned a thing about human mages in years, not til Frisk showed up, and something like this hadn’t ever come to mind. 

“just an idea,” he murmurs, then raises a brow bone, honestly interested. “did your parents ever say anything about mages growing up? teach you anything about what happened?”

“No,” you reply, and although he misses the close proximity of your body next to his when the distance remains, this is too important for him to complain about. “They read me the old story, the one passed down in our family.”

“what story…?”

“About the war,” you say, watching him as he takes the blanket and tucks it in close again, the thing having fallen limp from your vanished grip. “How monsters and mankind fell to fighting, and that with magic we had imprisoned you. I never thought it was real, only that the story never had a proper beginning or end.”

“it never explained how it started, i’m guessing.”

“Sadly, no,” you reply, your previous concern returning. “Nothing about strange, monster animals, or really much about mages or monster at all.”

“...kinda different than how it was down here,” Sans says, unsurprised by your reply. Humans were pretty damn shocked out of their socks when they all showed up, after all. “the story is carved into tablets down here, and if you’re willing to dig deeper, some old monsters remember a thing or two about magical humans from the surface.”

A few of which Sans never thought would matter, not until you, the descendent of one of the most powerful magical families popped in his life. Maybe the stories about the mages were true, and maybe humans had forgotten how to use what they, and everything else, are born with.

Maybe, you just needed a little push.

 

“Coffee?”

The youngest skeleton’s foot beats a staccato rhythm against the floor of the office space, the sound carrying over the brief burst of life that is the station, before the door shuts against it. 

Papyrus, as he is called, does not respond to Elliot’s inquiry, but he is not deterred, cooly walking around his desk and placing a cup near to the monster before sitting down in his chair, holding his own. 

“I’VE HELD MY PATIENCE FOR LONG ENOUGH, HUMAN,” Papyrus grinds out, the restraint of his temper exemplary, and Elliot gets a reading that he must have learned the painful way that shouting rarely leads to being heard. “WHAT HAPPENED WITH MY BROTHER,” he goes on, planting one hand on the leather back of a guest chair, and the other hitting the desk hard enough to make it shake. “YOU OFFERED ME AN ANSWER AND I HAVE BEEN KIND IN MY PATIENCE. I CAME WITH YOU HERE, TO THIS POOR EXCUSE OF A COMPOUND, AND LET YOUR LACK LUSTER GUARDSMAN WATCH ME SINCE I ENTERED AND I HAVE ABOUT REACHED THE END OF MY GOODWILL!”

“No one gave you any trouble, did they,” Elliot asks sincerely, vision sharpening, and he doubts that it escapes Papyrus’ scrutiny: this one has a sharp eye, they could have been siblings.  _ With a bite so keen, he closer resembles mother then I do. _

“NO! IN FACT...THEY HAVE BEEN RATHER CORDIAL ABOUT THE MATTER. NO MINDLESS GAWKING, OR THREATS TO DO BODILY HARM WHILE POORLY HIDING THEIR EFFORTS TO NOT SOIL THEMSELVES. I WOULD ALMOST CALL THEM PROFESSIONAL.” Here his gaze grows shrewd. “WHICH INTERESTS ME GREATLY, AS YOU MIGHT IMAGINE.”

“I might.”

Papyrus claws bite into the desk. Elliot fails to tremble, but concedes: now is not the time for the bearing of teeth, there’s no point in flaying Papyrus with his mood when the brother had no hand it what had occurred. 

“My officers have been keeping a close eye on monster-human interactions for some time,” Elliot speaks, seeing Papyrus relax in his mutilation of his work station. “As you know our relations are in an extremely fragile state, and as the years progress tension will only mount. 

“We act in the best interest of both sides, for the sake of both monster lives and humans. Your king agreed to work hand in hand with my people to see that are needs are met, for our needs are the same: keep the peace for the sake of the new generation, those still yet young, and those that have yet to draw breath. 

“My officers have grown used to the presence of monsters, because they spend more time around them then they do their own families, for the sake of their own, and for yours. I trust the king made his intentions known to his guard.”

“YES, HE TOLD US, BUT ONLY THE CAPITAL GUARD KNEW OF THE HUMANS ASSIGNED TO THE TASK, ” Papyrus crosses his arms. “BUT IF THERE IS ONE HUMAN THAT I DID NOT EXPECT, IT WAS AN EBOTT TO BE THE HUMAN’S LEADER. SWORN INTO THE FAMILY, OR NO.”

“And neither did I,” Elliot replies truthfully, his tone dropping down from the firm, business sense it had taken on. “But your king is nothing if not clever. Allies close, enemies closer, forever still,” Elliot says, closing his eyes and recalling one of the nights that William sat on the edge of their bed, his hand pressed to his mouth as worry swam in his eyes.

_ “How could they ever forgive us, Ell? He could take me in his hands and crush me into nothing, and I would not misunderstand his reason for doing so.” _

The king had told them the tale, the one of how his children had entered the world of the surface once upon a time, and his son had been slaughtered on sight. His rage had been absolute, the threat there as cloaked as a sword hidden by spiderweb.

Two of the descendents of his enemies stood in that room at the base, and listened to his story. William and Elliot left that room alive, and the third descendent, the human child Frisk invoked a smile from their father when they left that spoke volumes on how quickly the king’s mood could change.

No, not change. Elliot knew the king would always be ready, for anything. Whether that be a slaughter, or a peace agreement. 

“But you did not come here for pomp, but for answers,” Elliot says, returning to the present, and to the matter at hand. “As part of our agreement for peace, we promised to lay our secrets bare. 

“Once the Ebotts, and six other human families ruled under the human monarchy. I will be direct with you Papyrus, out of those families, mine is one and in this, I do not mean the Ebott bloodline.” 

Papyrus draws to his full height with this reveal, his eye sockets assessing Elliot anew, but Elliot notes that nothing in his visage changes beyond his initial reaction. “I FINALLY UNDERSTAND,” he scoffs, magic allowing what his physical makeup cannot. “I KNEW YOU WERE NOT ONE TO BE TRIFILED WITH UPON OUR MEETING, BUT I NEVER WOULD HAVE GUESSED THAT SO MANY OF THOSE CRETINS THAT ENSLAVED OF WOULD HAVE A MIND TO NOT TUCK TAIL AND RUN THE SECOND THE DEED WAS DONE.”

“Many of us did,” Elliot states, going on. “With the barrier in place, the human monarchy was quick to turn on their magical subjects. They feared that they would use their power to overthrow the very ones that employed them, and thus our people were hunted as we once hunted monsters before us.”

“WHAT MAGNIFICENT IRONY,” Papyrus’ sneer is cruel, and justly so, Elliot cannot help but agree.

“Stragglers of both monster and mage-kind were slowly, but systematically killed. Some escaped to far off unknowns, but in the case of the humans, they adapted, and bred. Family names persisted, and within them so did their ancient potential. Ebott and Morana were two that remained, for the most part, near their old home. A descendent of one of the other five kidnapped your brother earlier today, and tried to kill Polaris.”

“A MAGE? HAVE YOU BROUGHT ME HERE TO LIE TO ME, HUMAN? ARE YOUR KIND TRYING TO START A WAR,” Papyrus snaps, fury alight once more. Officers beyond the windows of the office are at last beginning to turn and look, but Elliot shares a glance with one of them, and the silent order to stand down sweep like a tidal wave, unspoken, throughout the remainder of the precinct. “I’M NOT SURPRISED THAT YOU WOULD BE SO READY TO BE AT EACHOTHERS THROATS, BUT WHY WAS MY BROTHER DRAGGED INTO THE CONFLICT?”

“Malika Vimbai acted primarily in her own interests, in accordance to her need to seek vengeance against Polaris for the events that took place years ago. The very one that resulted in the death of their elder sister, and Polaris’ tutor, Vivian Vimbai,” Elliot answers, recalling the image of Malika in the interviewing chair. Due to his close relations with the case, Elliot was not permitted into the chamber himself. He could only watch. It was his superiority alone that allowed him to stay on the case for as long as he has, but his influence must remain at the bare minimum or risk compromising it entirely. 

“Vimbai knew of my close observations on my child given their history, and instead chose to strike out against Sans when she had the chance.”

“YOU’RE SAYING MY BROTHER WAS A PAWN? BAIT TO BE USED TO DRAWN IN EBOTT’S PURSUER WHEN THE TRAP COULD NOT BE SPRUNG ON THE TARGET THEMSELVES? I ADMIT IT WAS CLEVER, BUT IT WAS  _ MY _ BROTHER THAT WAS TAKEN... I WOULD ALREADY HAVE HER THROAT IN MY HANDS IF I DID NOT MAKE THE MISTAKE OF ALLOWING THE ACQUAINTANCE BETWEEN SANS AND YOUR SPAWN TO BEGIN WITH!”

“Then you did have knowledge of it meant,” Elliot asks without needing to make it a question, the break in Papyrus’ stare is all the answer he needs. 

But, somehow, it is not all that is provided.

“THE UNDERGROUND WAS NOT A PLACE OF MERCY, YOU LEARNED TO HARDEN YOURSELF OR YOU BROKE. I learned that at a young age.”

Elliot does not remark on the shift in his demeanor, and so short is the break that he hardly would have the chance if he decided to do so. 

“POLARIS BENEFITTED FROM AN ALLIANCE WITH MONSTERS, YOU PROBABLY KNEW THAT, DIDN’T YOU? AS DID MY BROTHER, FOR REASONS I WILL NOT CONFESS. I HAD EVERY INTENTION TO END THEIR DALLIANCE AT THE DOOR, BUT I CHANGED MY MIND AND I WAS AT FAULT TO DO SO, THAT I SEE NOW.”

Elliot was afraid of this, but if his observations of the “dalliance” between his older brother and Polaris is anything what it seems to be...it may take more than stern disapproval for it to wither.  _ Polaris is an Ebott, this would come of no surprise.  _

“Vimbai’s trial and punishment will be foreseen through its fullest extent,” Elliot says, returning to formality: nothing about the further destruction of an old friendship is something he finds himself capable of enjoying, even if is for Polaris’ sake. 

_ And Polaris will not enjoy it either, when the shock breaks.  _

Polaris’ is taking Malika’s betrayal as well as Elliot might, burying it deep, for the time being, until it’s sure to come spilling out.  _ Papyrus says Sans benefits from this, is it in anyways that I see that Polaris does? _

“Returning to the matter of dying magical families,” Elliot continues, grateful that Papyrus does not begin raving again, although he doesn’t appear exactly happy with Elliot’s words of assurance about Malika. Neither would Elliot be, in his shoes. “It was made easier when one of the primary sources of their magic was locked away, beneath the mountain.”

Papyrus’ constant rage at last wavers in favor of shock, “ARE YOU IMPLYING-?”

“Yes,” Elliot nods. “Human and monsters were capable of sharing magic with one another, amplifying the magic of one, the human, with the persistence of the physical vessels of both. Oftentimes the monster suffered for this, sometimes both. When the monsters were locked away, humans lost their companions. They lost slaves, and, in some cases, they lost their familiars.

“But although magic, for the most part, died out, the power remained. All it takes is one, old monster to hold onto the memory of how it was once done, and a human of limitless potential, a descendent of one of the dying, ancient mage families.”

“IN THE WAREHOUSE, YOU’RE SAYING WHAT POLARIS DID WAS MAGIC?”

“What happened in the warehouse was a result of a descendent, my child, forming a pact with a monster taking the form of a small, white dog.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it? Where's the rest? Worry not, Polaris has a date with a certain king set for the future, and from there Asgore will explain the rest.  
> But, first, Malika. 
> 
> Pop quiz: What descendants of the seven mages have been named so far?


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't ever edit something on mobile guys, ive made this mistake twice now. i didn't even get the chance to read any possible comments b/c i wanted to wait a while ;A;

“You think AD is a, my, familiar?” 

Sans runs a hand over his skull, no less frustrated when the two of you left the scene of the incident. “look, i know it sounds kind of ridiculous but you said it yourself, you don’t know what happened, and magic is about the best bet we’ve got here. magical family, demonic dogs, i never paid ad any kind of mind like that but, from what i learned, when you put to and to together what else ya got?”

“B-but that would make me out to be some sort of witch,” you interject, moving closer to him and truly not understanding how that could be the answer. “I understand that monsters are no longer a thing of myth, but the fabled magic use of my family has been gone for nigh on centuries! Why me? Why-why aren’t there others out there like this?” 

“us monsters have only been out and around for so long, pol. maybe you’re the first case, i don’t know,” he shrugs heavily, the distracted set of his features telling you that he’s still very much trying to understand it himself. “there’s not much on this stuff i picked up on, but we did keep tab on these things. whatever to help break the barrier, right? what better way to do that then to know about the people who did it? thing was, the strongest of them, they kept their tricks to themselves, and over a millenia of trying to figure this shit out, stuff gets lost. muddled. most of the monster didn’t even know what a human looked like, was the reason why frisk could walk around all willy-nilly like they did.”

“What did you know? You mentioned tablets…?”

“yeah, telling the story of how it happened.” Sans nods, appearing faintly uncomfortable as he rubs at the back of his neck, just under his jacket collar. “when the war was at it’s climax, seven mages came together and erected the barrier, forcing the monsters underground. one human soul, that’s all it would take for the entirety of my kind to wiped out if anyone of you tried.”

“You all are so powerful,” a laugh escapes you, entirely mirthless, but utterly disbelieving in the idea that someone like Asgore could be felled by one human person. Yet that doesn’t stop you from recalling the conversation you had with Sans...yesterday? Was it really only yesterday?

Shaking your head and feeling suddenly uncomfortable yourself, you look back up at him. “Does that have anything about the discussion on intent we had previously?”

“‘xactly,” he perks up, but that soon fades with a flush of disappointment. “don’t think we have enough time to go into that right now, but i think it’s pretty important to what’s going on with you.” He shakes his head, as if not liking the idea of putting it off, and you’re frowning softly. “sorry, bear with me here. but like i said, the tablets told about our history, but there was also this weird story in waterfall about a horrible creature, something about a human absorbing the soul of a monster, and becoming something even more powerful.”

You flinch away from your friend, and the very idea that this implies: “ _ You think I absorbed AD _ ?”

“no!” Sans hands raise up, but he makes no move to touch you, your unsettled expression relaxing only minutely. “well, maybe? thing is, you didn’t kill ad and take his soul, but i do think you maybe borrowed his magic.”

“That's why you think I was able to injure those people on such a significant scale without being hurt,” you finish for him, slumping back into the couch cushion. “In the warehouse, that was AD?”

“yeah, and the little bastard can kinda go anywhere he wants,” Sans scowls, eyeballing your chest, and then meeting your wide eyes again. “have you...tried calling him, or somethin’?”

 

You open your mouth, then close it again. A flush of warmth graces your cheeks when you think about it, simply calling out for the dog, and with Sans watching you. It’s an entirely absurd way to be taking his suggestion but, in your mind, so is the idea of AD being...with you, per se.

_ Must I remind myself? Monsters, magic, why question it,  _ you think in faint exasperation, but truthfully this entire situation has dragged your normally outward, congenial attitude through the dirt.  _ And how must Sans feel, being here dealing with my problem while Papyrus worries about him on the surface? At the very least, I should heavily consider this idea. _

_ And...there is the fact that AD did give to me that knife outside of my home. The very one I used on those people. _

Twisting in your seat, you place your feet on the floor, looking into the dark of Sans’ home as if the small monster could be hiding just around a corner. “AD!” You call out, pretending as if it is just so. “Could you come here?” 

_ He is a tad more sentient then some dogs, perhaps being polite-? _

 

Sans thought that the weirdest damn thing he would ever have to see in his entire existence  was the king in a flower print shirt...strike that, nothing could quiet reach that level of surreal, even if it’d only been a picture on Frisk’s phone.

But this, this definitely takes the cake for the runner up spot.

The double layer of blanket and quilt combo expands from behind you, shock taking over that he can completely freaking understand as he sits there helplessly, watching as the lump grows bigger and bigger. “p-pol!”

Your head turns, but not for his sake, and your arms loosen their grip on the fabric your swaddled in, something distinctly muzzle shaped pushing its way out from under its folds near your shoulder. You stutter the dog’s name, and his head pushes the rest of the way, the rest of him balanced on your back and shoulder--and Sans  _ hopes  _ he’s completely outside of you at this point--, his sharp yip accompanied by a flash of red tongue. 

_ holy hell why couldn’t i have been wrong! _

“A-AD, boy,” you’re staring, voice shaking, but you don’t look nearly as horrified as Sans thinks you should be: in your shoes, he’d be running for the hills, to hell with this! 

“ _ get off them, ya freak _ ,” Sans shouts, making a grab for the dog. AD’s mouth snaps closed, but he doesn’t so much at glance in Sans’ direction before making a leap off of your shoulder. 

Sans braces himself clumsily against the back of the couch and the cushion your sitting on as to not fall all over you, while AD spins around from his place, standing in the middle of the living room floor. A reverberating growl rips from the baring of his serrated jaws, the dog leaning back and allowing his hackles to stand in full. Sans growls back in response,  _ daring _ the little bastard to make a lunge for you again.

“H-hold on, you two,” you try to plant yourself between the two of them without leaving the couch, but the distinct, and not at all typical stutter in your speech nearly has  _ him _ raising his hackles.

_ if this damn dog hadn’t of interfered-! _

“I said  _ enough!”  _

Standing up, you make yourself a human wall between the two of them, dropping the blankets entirely and revealing the state of your appearance: your previously and more than likely impeccable outfit is stained with the blood, painted across your pant legs and shirt in swatches of red, both in thin slash marks, as well goblets of dried circles. He’s not seen you look like this since AD bled all over your bedroom, and frankly that fact serves to piss him off even more so.

“Sans! This is much my fault as it is his,” you make to argue, his resulting attempt at an interjection being shot down point blank: “But nothing! I told you only the truth, I do not regret stopping what occurred, and if it were not for AD’s help I do not want to begin to think of where we would be now! Where, you would be now.”

Your volume drops with your eyes, sight falling to the nauesting color of the carpet, and AD comes walking around your leg, shining eyes meeting your own. 

“When Vivi died, I could only think of how I would have changed things if I had the chance. If I were stronger, or maybe, if I could have convinced her to wait longer,” your stance weakens, a sigh escaping your nose, and Sans feels the aching urge to wrap you back into his arms intensify. “And, as ashamed as I am to admit it, I am partly relieved that there is some reason behind all this.”

“so you get that this isn’t all your fault,” Sans says carefully, his brow heavy when he thinks that perhaps you’re finally seeing that, but remembering the way your eyes tightened when you asked if anyone had died. 

“If what you’re saying is true about AD, I facilitated his actions,” you respond, that same look returning, and Sans momentary blimp of victory is smothered. “AD, lended me his power, you say? What you’ve told me proves that I fully, and utterly used that power without hesitation.”

 

The second floor bathroom is untouched by the yellow tape of the investigators, this cannot be said for the remainder of your home. 

Sans was quiet when he accepted your request to return, but without asking for it beforehand, he skipped the ground floor entirely, and the two of you appeared beside your bed. Gauging by the light escaping through your window, the day has long since reached the hour of dusk, and it’s almost comforting to be blanked in it’s warm afterglow. 

Leaving behind your friend with a thank you for his patience, you slipped into your bathroom, and shortly the room began to fill with the haze of heated water, made thicker due to the relative chill of the building. AD doesn’t follow after. Before the two of you had made way for home, Sans had scooped the dog up and all but shoved AD under his arm. Strangely, the small monster took it rather well, and all things considering, it was fortunate that he didn’t catapult himself at Sans the same way he did Undyne when the two of you first met.

_ “Sustenance and blood”,  _ you quote in your head, closing your eyes against the cascade of warm water across your skin.  _ I barely remember what AD said that night, but to think it wasn’t a dream.  _ A dream, much less and honest to goodness promise to help you whenever called upon. _ Is that what this is? He attacked Undyne...but when I threw that food bag, I expected that, didn’t I? _

Your eyelids snap open, gasing sightlessly into the white walls of your shower. 

You recall distinctly taking it in your hand, aiming at the blue scaled monster’s face point blank, and altogether doing it with the idea that AD would jump to take it back. 

_ Did I somehow know then what would happen? Sans told me that AD is a monster, I knew at that point that he was radically different from the rest, but that...did that somehow start this? Or did it start when I gave him the biscuit before the park? Blood, was Undyne hurt when that happened, or did he mean his blood in the bedroom? _

Darkness comes up and grips your vision when you again cut off your line of sight, you run a hand over your eyes and forehead, smoothing back your head, and wishing the motion would take the mounting headache in your skull with it. 

You want to sleep, to forget this ever happened, that Malika was the one you woke up to first think on the warehouse floor

_ “THIS IS YOUR FAULT!” _

Malika’s cry in your head is interrupted by a quiet stride of piano keys, the sound of _ Chant èlègiaque  _ coming from your phone on the counter pulling your from her almost in what could almost be called irony. 

Switching off the shower, you step out from the confines of the tub, taking the time to remove a towel from it’s place opposite of the sink, but failing to miss stepping on the remains of your old clothing. 

_ They’ll have to be thrown away,  _ you note dissociatively, and pick up your cell phone, answering while beginning to dry your hair.

_ “Polaris, _ ” your father’s voice is a weight, bringing you back further into the present, and you drop the towel around your shoulders to focus on it’s anchor. 

“I”m here.”

_ “You’ve returned from the Underground,”  _ he remarks, as unsurprisingly astute as ever: _ “William tried calling, but the signal wouldn’t reach, and you’ve never been one to ignore calls altogether.  _

_ “Polaris, they’re asking for you to come to the station.” _

_ Of course.  _ Your role in what has become an investigation isn’t over, that you know. They should have questions, why Malika would target you, and, perhaps, it’s relation to your past with her sister. 

“I’ll come,” you promise, and turn your head to your closed door, knowing who’s still yet waiting on the other side. “Soon, Sans, he. He has to come, too, doesn’t he?”

_ “That is the case. My place in the investigation is nonexistent due to our relations, but I have someone assigned that I trust. But Polaris,”  _ your father’s tone takes on a faintly warning note, and you listen closely for his attempt at preparing you for what is to come.  _ “Malika or no, with Sans’ involvement this has been a case of monster-human relations. Asgore has chosen not to step forth and claim her for himself, as what may be by his right.” _

_ By his right? _ Reflected in the cooling mirror, fear sparks in your irises. 

_ “Asgore is in line to demand Malika’s release to his person; our team, the state, and the president may aquise this for the sake of sustaining peace, but the death of one human may shift to something more, and Malika is old blood,”  _ your father, Elliot, goes on. He doesn’t attempt to add padding to his explanation, his words are clear and precise, devoid of deception or degradation. Where as your dad would always attempt to be kind, your father forever cuts to the heart of things. 

No matter what sort of answer you could have sought, growing up, you always knew who to go to for one or the other, and you remain forever grateful for them both. 

_ “If his request to speak to you is honored, this may not come to pass. But if Malika says or does anything that overrides that promise, and places the greater whole of his people at large, it will no longer matter.” _

This “request” could have nothing more then to do with what you performed with AD, whatever act of magic that saved Sans and ultimately nearly killed Malika. How is that is so much more important then wanting to take revenge for a direct attack on one of his people? 

_ There must be more to it then this, but I cannot know until my parents or Asgore himself explains.  _

“I understand.”

_ “Thank you for being patient with this,”  _ your father breathes into his receiver, and you blink at the small amount of vulnerability that leaks through. At his place of business, such a thing must be extremely rare, but if there exists anyone your father will forever be honest with, it’s you and your dad.  _ “And I’m sorry that you did not live an uneventful life.” _

 

When you eventually leave your bathroom fully dressed, and having ended your call, your first instinct is to be honest with Sans. Sometime during your brief interlude, AD has fallen asleep, having become an almost entirely lacking in definition sort of white lump on the bed, but your friend remains a solid statue, where he appeared earlier with you at his side. 

“My father called,” you tell him, crossing your arms and almost hugging yourself: a lay down with him on the sofa is infinitely preferable to anything that’s occured in this one day alone. “He requested are presence at his station to be questioned.”

“surprised they let him take the reins on this,” Sans scratches one of his temples. “considering how personal it is.”

“His team is entirely unique in nature, if a monster weren't involved, another one would have been chosen but…”

“ain’t goin’ to complain, if you’re getting pulled into something like this, i’d rather be there anyways. this just makes it easier.”

“Sans,” you frown in astonishment, his words never failing to take you off guard. 

“heh, c’mon,” he offers a hand, not bothering to answer for himself, and you wish you could remain a little longer to wheedle it out of his system. “grab your coat, let’s get this over with.”

 

Sans had never been in a human precinct before, he’d like to see them try, but he’d seen them on tv with Paps. The outside was as he expected, made out of gray brick, dotted with a uniform display of windows, and it’s thick, wooden black doors framed by a pair of heavy stone columns. Inside...is weird.

The noise hits them right away, a trilling of phones mixed up with the rumbling voices of a dozen or so humans in starchy, black uniforms, their steps across tile clattering like the polished clacking of expensive heels. 

It just, feels weird standing there at the entrance, and Sans draws his arms in close, hands both pocketed after a few seconds taken to hold a door open for your smaller frame. You don’t appear any better than he is, stopping along with him in the foyer of the place, a big desk on a sort of platform cutting it off from the rest of the place. 

And the place is pretty big, he can see multiple desks lined up in neat rows near each other, some pushed together to face on another in pairs, and all of which seem to have some sort of computer, as well as a plethora of other important police stuff decorating their surfaces. 

Benches wait in the foyer, but the two of you don’t sit, still standing there, out of place, when someone walks around the front desk, stepping through a small swing door and descending a short flight of steps to the ground floor. 

Wearing a formal, dark suit, the human that approaches the two of you has short, trimmed black hair, minimal facial hair circling their mouth, and dark, brown skin.

“Polaris and Sans, I take it,” the human addresses them, one folder in hand as he offers his other free palm, strangely, towards the only monster in the room. “Detective Cohen, at your service,” Sans takes his hand after a beat, the officer unfazed by his lack of an immediate response, and following up with Elliot after, the human's eyes darting down to Pol's gloves for a blink. Sans narrows his own, wondering about that little observation privately. 

“I”ll be the officer assigned to the case, in the place of the captain. I’ll admit the circumstance is odd, but we’ll do what we can,” his shoulders lift, but despite the situation is pretty calm about it all. 

“Detective Cohen, do you mind if I ask,” Polaris begins, but tapers off, and Sans raises a brow bone when the officer shakes his head. 

“Doesn’t matter in this case, call it coincidence that we’re all here in the same building. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather keep it that way,” he finishes it, Sans now  _ wtf? _ ing five times til Tuesday in the privacy of his mind, his inner bewilderment expanding when you nod yourself, a slight smile accompanying the gesture. 

“Thank you for this,” is your reply, and when the detective turns, you follow after. Sans jerks to comply, cogs turning, until his eye sockets expand in realization. 

Cohen leads the two of you around the platformed welcoming desk, up the same stretch of stairs, and into the main room. No one stops in their work to gawk and stare, and Sans finds it makes him feel more on the spot then outside of it, but his earlier assessment of being the only monster around proves to be wrong when he sees more than one, non-human around. A few faces he recognizes, Ham from the bar sitting across a desk, sunglasses on, as he speaks to an employee, and a pink furred clan rabbit from the capital that sometimes visited one of the shops in Snowdin drinking coffee with an officer. Sans doesn’t imagine it when he sees a small name tag clipped to her button up shirt, but he doesn’t say anything as Cohen leads them to an office off to the side, the top halves of it’s walls made of framed glass. As Cohen enters, you nearly follow after, but stop when you notice two certain someone's down the row, in front of an office at the back. Elliot Ebott stands outside, his arms folded with your dad, Will. The former makes no outward sign of having noticed Sans outside of the meeting of their eyes, but wIthout a thousand resets of practiced observational skills, Sans doesn’t think he’d see the softening of Elliot’s visage when he sees you, though. Will claps a hand on his husband shoulders, then starts making his way towards the two of you.

“Sans,” he calls out unnecessarily as he nears, and the monster stands with the door open, noting the somewhat scruffier state of his chin compared to the day in the park. He’s wearing glasses though, but unlike before, they actually seem prescription. “Polaris, you’re here,” he almost sounds breathless, and you nod, trying a smile for his sake. 

“I would ask Sans to spirit us away to Poland if I had the chance.”

“offer’s still up,” Sans automatically quips, and this manages to get a chuckle from you.

“If anyone else were involved, maybe,” you admit, and your smile at last goes away completely. “But this involves Sans, and Malika. And what I did is incapable of being ignored.”

“Pol…” your dad mutters, at a loss for words. 

You shake your head, “Malika targeted someone important to me, I could face it if it only hurt myself, but Sans could have died,” you say, peering upwards towards him, and there’s no mistaking the regret there, nor the desire he has to reach out to you in response. “Whatever happened in the past, I can’t forgive that.”

_ who’re you refusing to forgive here, pol? _ Sans wonders, falling instep with you when your dad waves you both in first.  _ that kid, or you? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...this...this is still super lame. malika was supposed to make an appearance, but i didn't want to be late, but i might double update later?  
>  meanwhile i'm still fighting any urge to write a fell!grillby/reader/fell!gaster story. back, you fiend!!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end of this chapter is all over the place and it's the fault of one skel  
> bet you cant guess which one

William closes the door to the office behind your little group, and at once notices when Sans places a hand on the back of one of the only two guest chairs in the room. Nodding to the vacant seat while meeting your eyes, it provokes a smile from both of the Ebotts present.

"Okay," Cohen is the first to speak, sitting down himself with one hand pressed against his tie to avoid it getting caught on his desk. "After watching the tapes from the warehouse, and reviewing the separate small interviews done on the premises, I think we can cut to the chase and say this is a direct result of the Vembai-Ebott kidnapping of several years ago."

The young officer looks to you at the end, a stiff nod of your chin accompanying your reply: "Yes.

Cohen nods as well, expression unchanging as he scoops up a folder from the surface before him. "One last thing," he starts, pointing a corner of the folder at Sans, "and I probably should have pointed this out sooner, but all this pre-interview stuff can be done separate for the sake of privacy, but you guys seem pretty comfortable together for now."

William notes the coloring of your cheeks at once, his quick notice of your reaction a result of years of perfectly timed baby pictures, while Sans shrugs from behind you. "anyhin' you need to ask me you can say in front of pol here."

Sliding his eyes to you, Cohen is given basically the same response both physically with another nod and with a verbal reply, "I trust Sans completely."

The dad is practically smirking when it's the skeleton's turn to blush, but he's unsure of whether he's should be uncomfortable or not.  _ Should I be celebrating the fact that my kid is making headway in a relationship or crying?  _ When you hand goes up and covers Sans as it falls to your shoulder, Will feels his gut tense up.  _ Both. How about both. _

"Any argument with that, Mr. Ebott," Cohen asks him, and William has to clear his throat to respond, his playful salute hopefully masking how he's feeling in front of you right now.

"No problem here, officer. Whatever helps this proceed smoother for my kid can only be welcome," William says, giving a wink to the skeleton in the room, Sans freezing at the gesture. He still doesn't seem to know what to make of him, but William's always liked keeping people on their toes. 

“Then we can move forward.” Cohen flips open the folder in his hands. It’s pretty run of the mill, a yellow manilla brand piece of material, but it’s packed to the brim with documents, most of the ends of which are folded with age from where they poke out from their protective casing. William’s previous smile drops when he sees a photo clipped to the topmost document on the inside, a sixteen year old version of you staring tired-eyed up at the ceiling. The image is covered up when he pulls out a seperate folder from underneath it, basically entirely hidden from sight due the sheer bulk of the previous. It has a scant amount of pages, but William knows it’ll only thicken into a monster with time. 

That there should be a single case file open on his kid sickens him, his disgust not lending itself to the people who did this to you, but strongly directing itself at his own person. 

He’ll never be capable of thinking that he couldn’t have somehow helped avoid this. 

“Both you Polaris and your dad here have been through this process before, but for the sake of the new student in the room, I’ll hash out the details.” Cohen says this without amusement, flipping open the smaller one to overlap the other. “During this pre-interviewing process we’ll start with the basic details: background information of the victims, how to feel about the case and those involved, and so on. Certain questions will be repeated in the actual interview later on when things becomes more in depth and you guys are asked to remain separate.” Cohen glances up at Sans. 

“When that does happen, your lawyer from monsterkind will be present in the room, as well as there being another witness placed outside the room. The last thing we want is to cage you in with a bunch of the likes of us in one of the most heavily guarded facilities in the city.”

“uh, thanks,” Sans blinks, clearly not expecting this, and you’re frowning in astonishment yourself. 

_ Right, Ell talked about his job with you in the past, but given the time apart some of the details have been left out.  _

Elliot’s precinct is almost entirely unique in its creation, sadly. Monster interactions with the government is sadly limited, it’s still almost next to impossible for one to receive a job under a jurisdiction like law enforcement without facing heavy prejudice, but this precinct sole purpose is to find a working relationship between the species while protecting them as well. Monster informants are seen with the utmost respect and attention, and any one willing to volunteer as a witness for interviews for victims or the accused are eagerly accepted. 

There’s also the matter of surveillance, footage being live fed to monster security outside of the building, or otherwise being heavily monitored by intelligence created by the king’s very own royal scientist, Alphys Flamel. 

If anything occurred that would jeopardize the safety of monster civilians or the greater non-human public at large, the king himself could be notified almost at once. But given the fragility of their species despite their great magical aptitude, William can hardly doubt that nothing could be too much for the sake of the welfare of Asgore’s people. 

Some might call their efforts to be on the extreme side, but not a single member of monsterkind had shown so far to be outwardly malicious enough in nature to change their current tactics. 

And if anything Asogre had said on the matter of bias towards his people, then they had nothing to be concerned about in any case. 

_ “Those who hurt deserve to be hurt in kind.” _

_ Is that an eye for an eye kind of ideology, or was he meaning something else?  _

“In either case, human or monster, outside of the case of the ransom of the aforementioned kidnapping, neither of your family names will bear the weight of what they might otherwise imply in any other situation.” This time Cohen looks between the both of you, his voice turning almost chiding, and for the first time his face changes as Cohen’s brow lifts in quiet exasperation. 

_ I feel you there,  _ William sighs quitely inside the recesses of his mind, closing his eyes for a beat in silent comradery.

“I...understand.”

William blinks, looking to you when he hears the hesitation in your voice. He never would have imagined you being even faintly disquieted by this, but you’re looking up at Sans in curiosity, rather than facing the officer. 

_ Oh, boy. _

Sans’ eye sockets widen a fraction a few seconds after they meet yours, and the monster turns his head up, as if having only remembered something. “oh, yeah, cool. i’m cool with that.”

When you look away from your friend, the question in your gaze lingers. Yep, you have no idea.

_ Sans, Sans, Sans.  _ William shakes his head, the skeleton flinching in a statue-esque like shape out of the corner of his eye.  _ Were you going to wait until your father showed up at the precinct himself?  _

 

Busy, busy, it seemed as though since the morning Elliot was born he had been kept incessantly busy. Wealthy and established, offspring of a decrypt family in a swiftly, tilting decline, everything was orchestrated just so from the moment he was conceived. Marriage proposals sent out, tutors for piano, maths, science sent for years in advance, a dowry wrapped and given a scarlet bow; red was decreed to be his favorite color the moment he was pulled from his mother’s womb.

A Morana draws no quarter. Not for kin, neighbor, or country. 

Now Elliot’s child,  _ you _ , are directly in the line of fire again and he can do nothing but stand by and fret. He has work, plenty of casefiles on innocent monsters seeking sanctuary under a government that has so often failed it’s own human born citizens, but even standing there in the precinct as he is he finds his mind wandering to Cohen’s office farther along in the building. 

_ William is there,  _ he reminds himself, staring at the fingers of his left hand as it reminds wrapped around his cooling coffee mug. Soft, glittering scars curl with them, wrapping around thin digits and overlapping one another. The sight of them juxtaposed with thoughts of his husband has the same tempering effect that it always does.  _ William is always there. _

Such as the night nine years ago, before Vivian entered like a gift into their lives proper, when William held him as he bent double next to the porcelain body of thee toilet in their private lavatory. 

Elliot had cried until his throat turned hoarse, he would have continued until his voice was gone entirely if William had not been there. Cupping his fingers between his own, pressing his stubble into Elliot’s crown of hair. 

_ “It’s not, it’s not. It’s not your fault. She’s gone, she’s gone.” _

William didn’t promise that Elliot’s mother would stay away, he never said anything unless it meant something. Instead his words has tumbled into laughter, recounting days of his youth. A boy and his dog, a song in love with the almost ethereal child of Morana, but denied from ever approaching them simply because of a moldering woman’s  _ spite _ .  

_ “A hag, a downright mummy! I saw your mom across the ballroom floor and I thought, “What luck! Here I thought I missed the Tutankhamun exhibit that year and it came to see me instead!”” _

It didn’t take clever words, no, not with William. He could, oh how he can, rhapsodize wisdom when he tries, but William knows how much Elliot appreciates someone who goes straight for the heart of things. Honesty, a vivaciousness that no one could hope rival.

_ “Unmerciful, no life unchallenged. Vivaciousness mixed with cold hearted pitilessness,”  _ Elliot’s mother’s final words, what should have been her final words, muttered like poison in his ears.  _ “Your child will be a monster.” _

_ “No,” _ Elliot said it aloud. That one word she despised with all her Soul. And it was her child, her silent puppet that dared speak it against her.  _ “Because you will not have them.” _

Elliot turned his back on her that day for what should have been the last time, until the summer came when you were fifteen and they dared leave you alone, for two months, thinking you were at camp.

A telephone on a nearby desk goes off, pulling him from his reverie, and Elliot traces his fingers again, stopping on his wedding band. The gleam of light that surrounds it flickers, and he raises his head at once. The officer at the desk looks up himself, questioning the lighting without interrupting his conversation, and Elliot knows without turning his head that others have done the same as conversations stutter along with the workings of various machines in the room. 

A fax rumbles with unease, stopping mid transfer, computer monitors flicker, the coffee machine near the potted fern by the heart of the precinct finally gives in and dies one last time. Although words are continued to be traded, and Elliot sips at his lukewarm beverage, the energy has noticeably changed as everyone in the vicinity tenses subtly, whether they’re aware of it or not.

The final change, if perhaps only the final discernable one to the capabilities of human perception, is the thickening of the darkness. Shadows pool from soft grays to inky blacks, the lines between the tiled wooden ceiling thicken, something in the air comes in waves, feeling faintly...odd, and it all resonates from one figure as he slowly, languidly, walks his way over to Elliot.

He passes windows into other offices, shining surfaces of the metal legs of desks and chairs, the body of a water fountain, but sometimes light forgets to reflect his visage back at the world around him. Monsters that have become suddenly aware of him stand at attention, whiskers quivering, gelatinous ooze freezing with fear, and the humans in the room are not at all different. Elliot has heard them, their whispered complaints about nightmares, finding themselves watching shadows of the outside world as they pass them for longer then they should, and strange liking for sugary foods after every near mention of his name.

As humans mature, he is the monster that would linger under their bed, in the depths of closets that they never knew they had, and waiting to spring everytime you turn your head, but never, mercifully but also not so, never revealing himself when you actually grew brave or tired enough to look. 

Monsters came from the earth, and they came appearing remarkably tame. Curling horns, flowing fur, scales, slime, eyes by the single or by the dozen, but they were substantial and real. When the former royal scientist appeared weeks after the initial Emergence, a cut of impossibility ripped from the cloth of space and time, years of cowering under the sheets, catching your cheek against the burning glass of a torchlight, and listening to the shuddering pleas of your heart could ever have prepared anyone, utterly, for his presence. 

Elliot was not given a night light growing up. He was told to cower, to be emboldened by the dark, and he made friendships in the shapes that played across his bedroom walls at night. When he first saw this man, a small, infinitely young part of him wondered where he had been for so many years. 

It didn’t make it easier, facing WingDings Gaster, no one could have that luxury for as long as the primal need to live quickens in their veins. But Elliot stood unwavering, unmoved as all the current seven foot five man slid to stop before him. 

His suit is black, cut perfectly to every line of his body, if undoubtedly made from the same material that makes up his form. The lapels of his button up undershirt are square and white, and the near to chin high, tightly fitted shirt beneath that is, again, black in color. Gloveless, his punctured, thin fingered hands remain behind his back, and the shoes he wears, glimmering darkly appeal to Elliot’s more materialistic side almost embarrassingly so. 

Gaster looms, focusing on him for too long is liable to give one a headache, but Elliot knows from experience that it becomes more difficult not to the longer the mistake persists: the scientist is void incarnate, a walking black hole, the need to fling oneself in is irresistible, but ultimately, always, damning. 

“WingDings,” Elliot greets him, 

“Elliot Ebbot,” WingDings smiles, the shape it forms as unsettling as the remainder of his being, and when he speaks, it is in echo, the first rendition translated until it forms something Elliot’s human ears can understand. It must be in English, the result, but even then he cannot be sure. “We meet again.”

 

WingDings Gaster is incensed. The temptation to rip apart his son’s attackers molecule by molecule and inhale their vermin existence where they could further be deconstructed by his magic is near to cloying, he’s unsure of why he’s bothering with delaying the inevitable any further. 

_ I am that reason,  _ he reminds himself, and is repulsed by it. Murder at its core will forever be absolutely disdainful to all of monsterkind whether they relished the idea or not. The king need not make the request to his former charge that Gaster watch himself, even a minute amount of human excrement that are those creatures would swim inside like acid for the remainder of his days, but Gaster found that he has quite a lot of space inside himself to go around for such evils. 

_ They will waste and they will rot, and I will wait gleeful for them to depart. I’ll pull out their Souls, like marrow from bone, and show them hell is a father’s gut.   _

Gaster paid no heed to the others in the room, fixing his facade until the fissures in his face pulled at one another until the line of his mouth resembled that of a smile, and he greets Morana-Ebott singularly. 

The human does not forget to blink, at his wrist under the cuff of his attire a rubber band sits against his skin, one he pulls at with a finger of his occupied hand, and then frees. Snapping to flesh, it raises a faint, red welt of damage, but the tiny, nearly unidentifiable change to his health status allows Elliot’s pupils to dilate back to their original size. 

_ Clever human. Clever clever cleveclevercleverclever. _

“Preparations for Sans’ interview should be nearly over,” Elliot speaks up, and Gaster already knows this, seeing his son’s Soul flicker with movement in an office down the way: the Cohen’s Office.

_ A Cohen, a Vembai, a Morana, and an Ebott enter a building.  _

“I’m not laughing,” Gaster’s reply is to himself, but the Ebott doesn’t question it, plainly used to Gaster’s mannerisms at this point in their acquaintance. “My gratitude for the generous treatment of my son, and my condolences for the continued tribulations of your own offspring.” Ebott says nothing directly after, and the scientist’s brow furrows as he contemplates his next words.

“It is wrong, to find one’s child...harmed, in any such way,” Gaster break’s his line of sight for the first time since his arrival, grasping for the words that skitter across his mind suddenly like phosphorescent algae caught in a tide pool. “Though due in part to the whims of this world, it is still wrong.”

The Ebott, Elliot, frowns. But then his lips part, and Gaster has found that his voice has tempered at the edges, grown softer and giving away the gently more malleable state of his mood. “Thank you, Gaster.”

Gaster inclines his head-and abruptly turns it, altogether aware when the office opens several feet from behind the Ebott and Sans steps out. 

A sigh escapes him, rattling in the void of his throat, and magic untenses. Slackens. Calms. 

And then you step into sight. Sans turns down his skull, the worry etched into the narrowing of his sockets softening when his pupils alight upon your quitely upturning lips. 

The breath returns, drawn through his thin mouth and settling like coal where he can taste it. 

He is afraid. 

“d-dad?” 

 

Gaster is night and day, would be incorrect. Gaster is a swell, his mood comes and goes as it pleases, whether it takes him with it or not can never be completely discernable. Elliot was admittedly unnerved by Gaster upon their first meeting, but it was a curious sort of discomfort. A sort that came when starting a new, terrifying piece that appears near to impossible on paper, but when given time, and understanding, it can prove to be a marvel. One still to be feared, but no less remarkable. 

_ “His is the greatest intellect our kind has ever known,”  _ Asgore had told him and his husband.  _ “His mind may difficult to comprehend, but it is one that can comprehend anything it puts itself to.”  _

They had been told the story of Gaster’s fall, if not the finer details. He was lost to his machine, the Core, presumably his greatest invention, and thought to be dead. The truth was that when he fell he was scattered, throughout space and time, ripped apart by his work...and ironically kept together by the very barrier he was seeking to destroy. It’s magics were too stubborn, he may have stretched across the cosmos, but they kept him tightly bound within it’s net all the while. When it fell, he consumed it’s crumbling powers, and used it to draw himself back together. 

Not the same as he was previously, but still very much alive. 

When Sans’ voice carries over to Elliot and his companion, the spell that Gaster had cast over the room by his very presence  _ shifts _ \- noise is no longer muffled although Elliot had never noticed their quieting, eyes turn away to their own work, and something in his stomach uncoils from it’s previous state of contemplating nausea. 

Gaster also noticeable changes. He shrinks, slowly, by several inches until he stands only just above his son. His shoulders are not as sharp beneath his suit, and even the harsh scarring of his face become less cruel in their design. 

By the time Elliot has stepped aside for your and Sans’ approach, Gaster’s round pupils have returned to lighten the recesses of his skull.

“w-what are you doin’ here,” Sans asks, your interested attention breaking long enough to meet Elliot’s gaze: “Father.” Elliot nods at your greeting, sweeping his own eyes over your face for any tell-tale discomforts. You’re still uncomfortable, worried, that much is a given. But you’ve not withdrawn into yourself, either. This difference compared to the last time you were present in a law enforcement building is incredible, a mercy it seems that Elliot did not just have to hope for. 

“T-to see my son, of course,” Gaster replies to Sans, the uncertainty there as if the other father was afraid that he had committed some sort of social faux pa in flying to his child’s side. 

“you came down from the mountain,” Sans doesn’t seem to believe it despite the fact that the fact that Gaster is very much here. The other monster begins to fret, pulling his hands before his person, and tapping the ends of his long fingers together. 

“I-i-it was prudent that I be here, Sans. I was...worried.”

Sans frowns but doesn’t reply, searching for one with a darting of his eyes around the room. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself, until the first one to speak up during the silence turns out to be you.

“WingDings Gaster,” you exclaim, stepping forward once and drawing Gaster’s owl-like stare. “You’re Sans father?” There’s a laugh in your voice, as if you can’t believe your luck, and Elliot feels himself smile. “I didn’t expect this at all, I wasn’t sure of when we would ever meet,” you rush on, just short of taking the monster’s hand and shaking it in your heated excitement. “I have so much to ask!”

“Lucida.”

Your smile falters, everyone but Gaster in your little party not understanding his response. 

“Come again?”

“It’s a splendid name for a child,” Gaster actually appears to preen, a cleverness weaving into his smile that causes all three of them to twitch as one, the scientist lifting a knuckle to his chin in proud consideration. “And if you use his name, he’ll cry.”

“DAD!”

Elliot would thank Gaster for giving him the chance to see you turn such a wonderful shade of red, if his heart wasn’t currently threatening to halt in his chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> family, extended work hours, sickness? i'll take it all on! who wants some next?   
> (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (- o – ) zzZ

“To think the last time we talked properly you were barely knee height.”

Officer James Cohen stare up at William is decidedly flat as the father tilts the picture frame on his desk to the side, spying the faces of the small family beneath the glass. Tiny James has a wide face and even wider smile, his grandfather’s hand dwarfing the kid’s shoulder as the older man’s eyes swim with warmth in the direction of the photographer. 

When William first met James he was much the same as he is now: taciturn, and straight laced in both the literal and figurative sense, his dress shoes catching the light of an overhead chandelier and shining smartly. Something about his grandfather could have brought his smile out of him, but what William recalled of the gentleman was that he was a kind soul, forward in his answers, but polite. He would have liked to meet him again, but for good or ill, the last of the old houses had been dropping like flies during the most recent generations. 

“The last time we talked was more than twelve years ago, Mister Ebott,” Cohen answers drily, but there’s a directedness to his speech that betrays his feelings on the subject before he speaks them. “I’d rather too many of our families not exist within one hundred square miles of each other.”

“Families, families,” William mutters under his breath, a glare catching his glasses as he pockets his hands, his smile weakening into wryness. “I definitely know how that feels.”

Cohen’s gaze flicks down for a moment, but he doesn’t argue. “Look, I’m sorry this happened, but as far as I’m concerned those ties don’t matter unless someone insists on making them matter. I’m also not an idiot,” William frowns. He understood Cohen’s feelings about the drawing of their families well enough, but- “I saw the footage, and it’s one hell of a coincidence that one of us would be involved in this sudden “magical” awakening,” he uses his fingers to quote that single word, his hands dropping to the arms of his chair like lead after. “Let alone three.”

“James-.”

He shakes his head, cutting off William’s reply. “The ties don’t matter. But if any of those moldering bastards step into this city and try to replicate what was seen here, this isn’t going to be just about Polaris anymore. Boss never brought it up, but after interviewing Vambai, I just wanna ask,” his eyes land back on the father, sharp as flint, “when’s the last time you and the boss checked on his moldering bastard?”

 

In a world that was not this one you could have imagined the following being plausible: you, see seated with your fathers and dad, heirs to two greatly influential human households, with W. D. Gaster, the royal scientist to monsters, and his son, Sans, a person that you have found a sort of comfort with you had thought lost to you for the remainder of your natural life. But life has a way of surprising everyone. One day you’re a normal dog walker, the next dogs walk you, but as you take a drag from your coffee cup, you consider keeping that one to yourself for the sake of your friend’s sensibilities. 

Sitting next to you, Sans sits slumped into his elegantly designed chair with all the will of a dying housefly. He’s utterly spent, his day beginning with a kidnapping and the last one-hit KO coming in the form of his father suggesting that the two of you would have offspring.

Children. 

Small Sans-es, with ridiculous speech patterns that consisted of frequent use of the word “ain’t” peppered next to twenty-five cent vocabulary such as “libramenta” and “electromagnetism”.

You love them already.

But you’re entirely unable to tease Sans for his reaction, you were no less shocked, albeit your reaction was much quieter than his sudden shout. You thought Papyrus the only one of the two capable of such a volume, you have been most certainly been proven wrong. 

Sans wasn’t the only one affected, you can swear by your father’s failed flower garden that your own father had nearly choked on his caffeinated beverage. All the while Gaster stood there, a picture of complete innocence as he smiled warmly at the two of them.

Now he sits at the same table as yourself, the monster who stood alongside the king as they announced to their world their intention to leave peacefully alongside mankind. Beyond that one public showing, W. D. Gaster had not been in the public eye. Not on television broadcasts, or open forums, it was to such an extent that he, for the most part, had entirely slipped your mind. 

But now it makes sense, why Cohen would make the comment in his office about neither of your parents providing any effect on the case. You thought it mentioned due to your own upbringing, perhaps even due to the fact that he was a monster and prejudice towards his kind is at a constant high.

Royal Scientist and elusive right hand to the king himself, Sans’ father. Royal Tactician to the guard, Sans’ brother, Papyrus. You thought stepping away from your family meant removing yourself for the most part from the sphere of such things as titles, but you’ve found yourself walking directly into that of several others. 

You can’t feel or ever seeing yourself begrudging Sans for this, you chose to an almost irritating extent to be his friend after all, but even then nothing about this bothers you, not really. It’s utterly astounding, if anything, and you can only be grateful for this. This chance to meet his father, whom he’s never spoken of properly. The person who’s been in charge of his formative years for so long in the Underground. 

He’s a rather striking figure, taller then Sans by a full head, and his suit cut from the same material, you hazard to guess, as the remainder of his magical form. His actual size and shape seem to change with his mood, appearing utterly imposing outside of Grillby’s when the remainder of your group met him there for dinner shortly after the run in at the precinct. 

It was stated by Cohen that due to the late hour of the day that proper one on one interviews would take place the following day. Lawyers would be present for you and Sans, and the two of you would have your own, separate appointments to recount the events that transpired shortly before, to the end of the kidnapping. 

You knew the process to be a long and arduous one, utterly exhausting not only due to length, as it could take up several hours, but also tiring on an emotional, as well as mental level. Cohen and any partner he employed would pick apart everything that will be stated as it is recorded, asking things to be repeated and rehashed entirely multiple times throughout the sit-down. Refreshments and breaks would be allowed, each step outside bringing with it it’s own sense of relief, no doubt. During your first round of interviews, years ago, it had been impossible to remove yourself from the situation, no matter where you existed. 

But this time you have Sans. This time, everyone lived, and although you aren’t happy with anything else that transpired, or who was involved, it should be easier than it was. Sans didn’t appear satisfied when Cohen mentioned that the two of you would be interviewed separately, but you didn’t have time to ask why that was. Was he worried that they would treat him differently due to what he is? You are, in all honesty. You trust your father, you want to trust the team that he has trained and led for cases such as this one, but you also don’t know Cohen’s personal viewpoint on monsterkind. Neither of you have spoken in years.

_ All I can do is hope for the best,  _ you thought, sighing inwardly. 

Interviews aside, everyone perhaps save for Gaster found themselves tired, and hungry. Your parents were the ones to suggest eating out together, and as intoxicating as it sounded to coerce your friend into returning home with you for a well-deserved nap, that was a great remainder of your person that needed this. To be with your parents, your dad and father. Sharing a meal for the first time in...ah, you can’t find yourself recalling when the last time this occurred. 

“We can take the car,” your dad suggested to your father. “You kids can zip on over there with Sans’ handy-dandy magic, and the G-man can do the same. No worries about awkward seating arrangements that way, eh?” 

Sans shrugged, unbothered by the idea, while your father sent your dad a questioning glance that you didn’t fail to miss. Your dad only smiled, looping an arm around the captain’s shoulders, and Elliot nodded, any question dying away before it started. 

Blinking at whatever had passed between them yet remained unspoken, you’d turned to Sans taking his hand as it was already being offered. 

“Grillby. This could be interesting,” Gaster commented, seemingly mostly to himself. His outline sharpened, his mouth drawing into a thin line, and something pricked on the edge of your subconscious. Then it faded, the scientist abruptly sinking back down by a full foot, and taking on a more cartoonish visage. “Until then.”

And he melted. Abruptly, splashing onto the tile, before sinking into their sealed cracks, and disappearing entirely. 

“still not used to that,” Sans muttered under his breath, near your ear.

Although it took seconds for you and Sans to teleport there, the other monster was already at the door, ignoring the darting glances of the hippocampus-like monster that acted as the bouncer for the night. 

The poor fellow only seem more bothered when Gaster turned to wave at your approach with one disembodied hand, the remainder kept tucked behind his back. When it floated away into nothingness again, you couldn’t help but watch it go, humming at the sight you had just witnessed.  

“Children, you’ve arrived, good,” he states amicably, taking in your smile with one of your own. It’s impossible not to find his to be utterly infectious when he slumps into himself like that, as if made gentiler by the very presence of his son. “I was just debating with the author on how we should approach this reunion with my compatriot of the wars.” 

“You were friends with Grillby,” you can’t help but ask with genuine interest. Formerly you thought Grillby to be more around Sans’ age range, but if what Gaster has said this could mean that the bartender is likely to actually be of boss level status. 

“Of course! Ah, the reckless abandonment we would find ourselves in when we were younger, or,” he taps his chin, considering. “Perhaps older.” He shrugs with good nature. “The details of these different realities utterly confound me.”

Sans frowns, his eye lights escaping your own when you look up for some explanation. “uh, dad’s kind of. it’s weird... to explain.”

“Nonsense, I’m completely comfortable with explaining the complexities of my continued existence to your companion,” Gaster says to Sans, batting away his comment like he would an errant fly. “What Sans means to say is that I’m quiet privy to the goings on of other universes, running parallel and branching of our own, dear Polaris. So much so, I sometimes forget which one I am presently situated in!”

“I-,” you try, and then it dies on your lips. This...this is a lot to take in all of a sudden, standing on the sidewalk as you are, while traffic rolls by, undeterred. 

“Ah, apologies, perhaps it is a little more than what was expected when previously asked for.” A line appears between his eyes as they narrow, Gaster momentarily frustrated, and at once you wish to reach out to comfort him, to apologize for your own lack of immediate understanding. 

But Sans is the one to come to his rescue, his skeletal hand falling on his father’s shoulder for a space of a beat until he returns it to his pocket. Gaster relaxes at the comfort while Sans remains awkwardly by, challenging your curiosities with how hesitant he was to allow his touch to linger for too long.

“gaster fell into a tough spot in the underground,” Sans says gruffly, not looking at either of you, and Gaster doesn’t speak up to explain further. Watching his son as the other avoids his gaze, there’s something apologetic about the way he sets his mouth to a grin. “the magic he was exposed to gave him... _ insight _ , into events in other moments in time,” he breathes out deeply, his hand going up to smooth across his skull. 

You feel your mouth parting, awe over what Sans is saying causing your heart to thurm with excitement. “You mentioned parallels-” you begin, addressing the father. 

“Yes! You know of it, do you not? For every choice made a branch is made in time, and so too one for those not made,” Gaster goes on, a thrill to his speech that very much belays his interest in the subject. “In fact, for every possibility imaginable, however slight or grand, there exists a reality where it, well, exists!” 

“That’s incredible,” you exclaim, and, after a moment, reconsider what he’s said. Speaking softly, you force down the sympathy that rises at their implications. “And...overwhelming, if I might admit.”

“You may, for it is merely fact,” Gaster speaks, and you feel regretful then that he has the patience to slip comfort into his voice when you know that out of the two of you he must be the most deserving of it. “Do not pity me, dear Polaris,” Gaster speaks, looking upwards into the wintering sky as you fail to hide your wince. “I missed my sons, but I was given a gift. To see them in many different forms, taking many different walks of life.” His chin falls back down, an errant snowflake disappearing into the like coloring of his skull. Sans meets his gaze steadily, his own mouth gritted tight, although he does not avoid his father this time.

“Many of which they hurt, but several more where they were content. Even happy,” Gaster’s lights go to you, a sense of awareness trailing up your spine that leads the hair on the back of your neck to stand. “You were there, so often. Not always in this form, not always in the same personality, but always of the same Soul. Belonging to my son.” His smile grows wistful and you wonder why this would be the case, even as his confession sets your breath to stillness. “For it I was grateful, and my hope never waned.”

Condensation fogs before you, but you think you could remain standing there in the snows forever and never conjure an appropriate response. Emotion lays thick in your chest, pushing against the confines of your physical shell, until it wells up and causes your vision to sting. 

The moment passes, the chance gone again when Gaster’s countenance shifts back from seriousness, into something flippant and bright as he peers beyond your person. Blinking away the threat of tears, you look up when you see that Sans has drawn close, his free hand raising as if to clutch at your cheek. 

“pol-,” his hand drops when a presence makes itself known next to the two of you, but as you’re forced to look away from him, the hand still woven into your own squeezes tightly. Comforting, wonderful.

Your dad is tucked close to your father next to you, the placid expression of the latter sounding off warning signals in the recesses of your mind that push back the remainder of your stilted thoughts. Although William is practicing jovialness, Elliot seems distracted, and worry chews it’s way through your previous confusion with avengence. 

They had taken some time in getting here, had something come up on the way?

“Hey, everyone,” William says as they join the party, “Ready to go inside? I’m famished!”

 

Normally when a hero enters a bar, a hush falls over the establishment, the only sound being the swish of the doors as they close behind them. When the five of you enter, you’re met with a chorus of explictives. 

Lights flare in their glass bulb containers. The temperature rises, and across the room a pint is slammed onto the countertop at such a force that it threatens to leave a dent.

“ _ GASTER!” _

Monsters are scrambling for cover when Grillby circles his countertop, his flames rolling over his arms and over his folded sleeves, fluttering angrily across his scalp and into a small bonfire. His expensive footwear falls solid across the floor as he makes his way over, your parents stepping to the side along as Grillby approaches, zeroing in on--Sans?

“You complete _ imbecile!” _

“heh,” Sans stutters a laugh, and you don’t leave his side, feeling the wave of heat dispersed from the elemental and sending your hair aflutter. “‘ey, grillbz-.”

“I’d say I didn’t take you for a complete idiot, Sans, yet that would be a lie,” Grillby snarls, his grin twisted and devoid of mirth when he prouds at Sans’ sternum. It’s only then that you notice the cloth still clutched in his fingers, and Sans’ eyes snap down to the offending flaming digit as it stabs into him. “But I at least thought you capable of watching your own ass!” 

“love you too, grillz,” Sans smiles with a sigh, his hands up in surrender as he appears entirely pained by this exchange. 

“ _ You aren’t allowed to die until you pay your tab _ ,” Grillby snaps back, fangs bearing once more, and he abruptly looks at Gaster where he stands. The bartender’s hand goes up, and the lapels of Gaster’s suit are clutched between his fingers, sweat breaking out across the scientist’s brow when Grillby pulls him close. “ _ Take note, science boy. Because you owe me an entire bar _ .”

Gaster’s available hands go up in a way that reminds you at once of Sans a moment previous. “O-oh, I see it’s this timeline, then,” his voice quakes. Without breaking his burning stare, Grillby turns his head and spits a spark of flame towards the floor, the light disappearing before it can hit the ground. 

Without further comment, Grillby releases Gaster, and the monster hits the floor again with a  _ thunk.  _

Squaring his shoulders, Grillby marches away, evidently done.

Silence falls, the two unsettled monsters’ eye sockets having gone dark in their skulls. After the backdoor to the kitchen swings shut, the first one to break the quiet is none other than your dad.

“Wow, I should have visited this place a lot sooner!” His laugh is met with an unsurprised but exhausted stare from Sans, and your father smiles indulgently from William’s side. 

He’s the first to lead your group away from the entrance, claiming one of the curving booths along the wall, only a place removed from where you and Sans had your date. 

The arrangement winds up being Gaster across from yourself, with Sans to your right, your dad to his, and your father next to Gaster, completing the interesting half-circle of characters that only this world could have resulted in. Unless you heard correctly outside of the bar, then perhaps it isn’t so strange after all.

The company is quiet at first, everyone regaining their bearings slowly after the happenings of the evening, and you lean in habitually to Sans’ side. Sans leans back, stiffening only when his father’s eyes shine brilliantly at the display, and your own dad is beaming brightly, much to your dismay. 

Heat rises in your throat, but you’re eternally grateful that Sans doesn’t move away from your person: you need this right now, the closeness, even if it comes at the expense of being embarrassed by your respective parent’s evident approval. 

“hey, you hear from paps,” Sans speaks up, not addressing the current situation, and mercifully neither does anyone else at the table. 

“He had just visited, as it happens,” Gaster replies, earning a raised brow bone from his son. 

“Your brother wished to discuss the case with my person at the precinct,” your father surprises you both by saying. “I requested that he allow you to speak together in private, and in return I would explain the situation at the large.”

“What El means, Pol, is that he wanted to make sure that Sans’ brother isn’t kept in the dark about your magehood,” William picks up, regret in his features when you’re unable to hide the discomfort that this topic brings. 

“I don’t even understand it myself,” you say, wishing you could tramp down the bit of weakness that’s betrayed in that moment. “Sans and I spoke of it, in the Underground,” you glance up at him, meeting Sans’ eyes for a moment, “he told me his speculations of my accidentally coming into a pact with another monster, and that’s why I was capable of doing what I did at the warehouse.”

“Oh, you were always capable,” Gaster comments causally, capturing your attention at once. “It was only a matter of introducing the right component to the equation.” Disgust crosses his features, and he shakes his head, his beady, white pupils flitting to the side for a second. “Despite my department, the use of such nomenclature is entirely unnecessary.” 

Bafflement skates through your stomach, and for the first time since meeting the main, impatience threatens to rise up in your throat. “You mean AD? Sans suggested the same,” you notice when both your parents’ awareness of what you're saying sharpens. “And we proved the theory correct,” your back presses against the soft cushioning of the booth. “When I called...he came, from...from inside of me,” you press your hand against your chest, peering down, and despite your broken line of sight, you still hear the hiss of breath from your dad.

“It’s true then,” he says, laughing in an almost self recrapting way when you look up once more. “With the video footage, I still hoped that it wasn’t that complicated. An unspoken of vacation to tibetan monks in the mountains to learn their mystical art of fighting would be easier to understand then this,” he scratches at his growing stubble weakly, your father closing the gap between them with his arm. Although he gives no other clear sign of comforting his husband, William’s weak smile softens.

Any further discussion of the topic is placed on hold when Grillby at last walks over, dropping available menus on the table top and gritting out a question: “Drinks.”

No one complains about his lingering irritation, you would actually find it wondering if you were not so wrapped up in yourself as you are, questions ready to burst forth ever more so with every second you're forced to wait. You order a coffee without consideration, but although Grillby leaves and returns swiftly, you find yourself falling to silence again. 

It’s almost as though you have so much to ask, you can’t utter a question at all, the words clogging together in your mind until none of them can hope to escape. 

“The beginning would help, I believe,” Gaster says smoothly, and you look helplessly upon him. Your dad takes a sip from his ice water with his requested curly straw, and with his hand still on the cool glass, when he speaks his voice comes softly: “You remember when you were younger and I would tell you all about how we were descended from the mages that trapped the monsters under the mountain?” You nod, unspeaking, and he goes on. “Back then it was a strange thing, being told myself for so long the same story,” he folds his hands together, propping his chin on their fingers, and his eyes becoming almost unfocused from behind his corrective lenses. 

“No matter how old I became I always sort of believed it, even if after all this apparent time not a wink of any of them appeared,” he laughs. “I looked under my bed each night. In the closet, in my great, great aunt Ruth’s old armoire. Even in the forest around the mountain, the very one we weren’t allowed up considering how often our lines seemed to have the tendency to get lost up there.”

“wait a second,” Sans interrupt, holding up a hand briefly to get his attention. “get lost? you talkin’ about all those fallen kids that wound up downside way back when?”

You frown up at Sans, seeing what he means clearly. “Such as Frisk?”

“Those are the ones,” you father affirms, nodding once, and closing his eyes. “I don’t know if I told you, Pol-star, but there’s a reason that so many of the families haven’t lived in the area in a few generations. They won’t admit it, but part of it comes from a superstition created by a supposed curse stuck on us after we locked the monsters up all those millennia ago.” 

A sharp laugh escapes Sans, startling you from beside him in your seat: “you gotta be kidding me. you saying that every one of those humans that fell came from a descendant of one of those mages that locked us down there in the first place.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” you father’s vision reopens, a dark sort of amusement gracing his expression. “Starting with our family, the Ebotts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully there wasn't too much content dropped all at once in this chapter, but it had to end where it did, or it would have sounded strange the next go round  
> it's been two weeks since i've updated, guys! thats,,,that's so long, but i'll find a way of updating this from beyond the grave if i have to! ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i!! have!!! retuuuurned!

Typically in cop movies when the interrogating officer walks into the interrogation room the audience is presented with a pretty lackluster environment. The walls are made of gray brick, the floors might be tiled but it’s nothing fancy, and all that exists by way of furniture is a couple of chairs with one table planted firmly between them. 

Growing up, these scenes always reminded James of a confessional, and maybe that’s when he began to lose his faith. 

In confession a sinner sits in a cabinet, divided by their Father by a wooden wall, and the smallest of windows, embedded with bars or mesh to provide privacy while reminding the confessor that they aren’t alone. They speak of their evils, the Father provides their advice, and from there demands penance in the form of vocalized scripture and prayer. It’s assumed that the person that’s really watching, judging them for their actions, is omniscient, and always aware, the Father is merely a mouth piece, and ultimately the person that’s really watching will give out their due you’re finally dead and gone.

Being an officer, in some ways it’s the same. You listen to their pleas, let them spin stories and lies while ferreting out the truth behind it all. Yet the higher power is only the law, and the officer a stepping stone in the process, but there’s no hiding from a cop staring you dead in the face. There’s no process of “Hail Mary”’s that you can rattle off to get away with what you did wrong. If things are done right, there’s no avoiding the penance you owe: you into that room, and due process has already begun.

Malika Vembai sat at that steel table, handcuffed to an iron bar beside her chair an hour or so after being arrested at the warehouse. It’s the last place Cohen ever expected to see her again, but on the other hand he never planned on running into any other members of the families outside of his boss if he could help it. When he walked in, case file and other materials in hand, her eyes lock onto him in a way that instantly reminds him of a girl he met once at a party. Pigtailed, wearing a dress with a flouncy skirt and shoes that looked too tight. The kid had been glaring up a storm; it was weird how little that face had changed since the last, and final time they had seen each other. 

“Malika Vimbai,” James started, shutting the door behind him, and her round eyes fail to waver as she replies dryly: “James Cohen.”

He didn’t respond, crossing the room, and pulling out his own chair. The file slapped against the table, the chair’s legs groaning softly as it was pulled across the floor a few inches, and his writing pad joins the manilla paper. There was a camera on the other side of the two-way behind him, not to mention the Captain and another one of the crew, but James always liked to have a pad on hand to take his own notes. Helped ground him in the moment, and made the perp nervous.

With the way Malika is nearly sprawled in her chair with one leg out and the other bent under the table, her ‘fro wild and unkempt, he doubts a few scribbles will have much of an affect this time. 

“The last time I heard about you, you were following your family into the medical business,” he states frankly, leaning back in his own chair, and a pencil already in one hand. “What happened between now and then that led to you getting into kidnapping and extortion?”  

Malika snorted, bending her other knee, and leaning into the table, “Good question, what about a preacher's son that turns into a cop?”

“This isn’t about me, Vimbai. I’m not the one going in trial.”

“But isn’t it,” her face brightened sarcastically. “Elliot Ebott stands on the other side of that glass and you don’t think you have anything to do with it?”

“What is this,” his eyes skated the room as he barely suppressed an eye roll. “If you’re bringing up families, I’ve got news for you. The only thing we know this has anything to do with is a six year old grudge, and a need to get back at a kid that had nothing to do with your sister’s death.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, James,” Vimbai smiled, the gleam of teeth failing to reach her eyes. “My sister died because she was wrapped in that crap with Pol, she wasn’t the one pulled out alive from that box, it was  _ them _ .”

“So you’re confessing that this was for revenge, then,” James nods pointedly, tapping at a blank page. 

“”A Cohen is a Figure-”,” Vimbai cut herself off, and it was impossible then for James to not tap at the ground with one foot in annoyance: “I know my family motto, Ms. Vimbai-.”

“But do you, James?” She raised an manicured eyebrow skeptically, “”A Cohen is a Figure, in Hand, Hearth, and Hope”. Priests that gave out words of encouragement, and faith. The thing about change is the more it tries the more it fails. “Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust. A Vimbai knows Healing and Rest”. I meant to kill Polaris in the warehouse tonight.”

“You’re just gonna say it,” James didn’t try to hide how surprised this made him, Malika just out an confessing her guilt right then and there, recorded and on file for as long as the office would stand. 

“I have no reason to hide my intentions. It’s pointless,” her any facade of her good will dropped, and Malika narrowed her eyes thinly at the glass behind him. “The Ebott’s have all the money that’s left. And money gets you places.” Her eyes fell back to him. “Priests and fathers. Healers to doctors. Dukes, and earls are politicians of old, senators and businessmen of today. And where does power and wealth get you,” she shrugged. “Anywhere you want. And my source tells me the Ebotts have their eyes and hands in all the right places.”

“You mentioned someone backing up your plans in the surveillance found at the house,” Cohen picks up and waves the file before setting it down again. “Med school was a scholarship thing. Like the rest of us you’ve mostly been wealthy in name, that’s it. Figured you had to get funding from somewhere.” 

“I’m a criminal James, but I’m no nark,” Malika shook her head slowly. “Someone tried to help me, a person with their heart in the right place. Don’t think you could try to say the same with one of them handing out your paychecks.” 

“What is this, some kind of conspiracy shit?”

“Do you really think that when all the families left this city they didn’t keep tabs? Especially now, with all the monsters crawling out from under their mountain,” Vimbai smiled again, and Cohen felt it: a shiver of warning starting up his spine. 

“What are you trying to say?”

“Think about it, preacher’s son. Monsters are back, and the first one’s up to the plate to say hello are the damn Ebott’s, an old family with the power and means to keep an eye on every one of us former mages. Polaris shows up to save their monster, and they Hulk out on the spot. It may have been revenge, but I think I helped prove a point,” she huffed a laugh, the sheer wickedness of her grin uncontained. “You say you knew your motto, but what about there’s? 

“”An Ebott is Nothing if not Vivacious. Determined and Strong, Steadfast to the End.””

 

Hours later and unaware of the details of Malika’s interview, you find yourself at Grillby’s with your family, your closest friend, and his father, feeling the first monster beside you has he jolts stiffly in place at your dad’s confession.

“hold up.” All eyes move to Sans, the skeleton’s sockets wide in his skull, and his toothy mouth set to a grim angle. “you’re sayin’ the first human to fall down to the underground was one of your people?”

“Yes, exactly,” William nods, eyes closing briefly behind his rectangular glasses, and you hum quietly at this new piece of information. You had only heard about the one previously, and that was when his parents were children...

Sans’ glowing pupils dart around the room before returning to the table, and you question his sudden concern silently, the skeleton glancing not failing to notice but speaking to everyone when he goes on. “look, this ain’t exactly my story to tell, but you can go to the king for more information,” he says, at once heightening the attention of everyone there. “but he adopted the first kid to fall down.”

“Just as he did Frisk,” your brow lifts, curiosity over the king and his family increasing in potential within you. Not only the last human, but the first as well? Given his obvious animosity towards mankind, such a thing to happen not only once, but twice since the war is quite remarkable! It would be understandable if his anger towards you people had weakened in the millenia that has passed to allow some love to grow from Frisk, but the first human..?

“That’s the thing,” your dad begins again. “We’ve always heard that there’s a curse on the mountain that ultimately snatches up one of our family, and it’s happened to all of us without fail. Once the last of the eight are taken, the cycle supposedly starts over again, but the last disappearance happened decades ago, and then it was only the second of ours to potentially fall down there.” 

“You mean grandma’s missing sibling?”

“Yeah, I never had the chance to meet them, I only heard the stories,” your dad says, frowning faintly with his arms crossed. “Frisk on the other hand, they were as much of a surprise as the monster themselves.”

“Would not have other children and whatnot been capable of being lost in the mountains,” you ask them all, honestly confused. It is a rather large range, after all, only Ebott being the largest of a few peaks.

“Not for Ebott, no,” your father supplies. “The barrier was one of several deterrents. Passive spells that disallowed a too close approach and examination of its existence were implemented to assure that their prison should potentially last until the devastation of the planet.”

“Passive spells like, waves of energy that send bad mojo and creep people out,” your dad unfolds his arms to wiggle his fingers, his playful wince juxtaposing your father’s stoic presence in every possible way, the combination of which pulls at your heart in aching nostalgia. “Gentle suggestions you know to back off. A giant blind spot or ten. Things like that,” your dad finishes, William returning to his causal smile from earlier. “Frisk is pretty special, but they’re only eight. Kinda doesn’t put them in the position to be grandparent material.” 

“And sadly I am no help either,” Gaster shakes his head, but hardly looks regretful with the smile he’s currently sporting. “With the mix of timelines I’ve observed, getting the necessary details in order can be a rather tedious process.”

“You mentioned that outside, Doctor,” you say, aware of the shift of discomfort on Sans’ face when you catch onto the topic, and having to stop yourself from apologizing to him discreetly that wouldn’t possibly make him feel more awkward. “You said that something had happened that had made you aware of other occurrences in time,” you end your statement with a questioning lilt, hoping you’re getting what he said exactly correct.

“That is indeed correct, Polaris,” Gaster’s smile weakens for a moment. “Polaris? All these stars, I’m sensing a theme. But I’m getting distracted,” his grin alights a new, a joke there you feel you’re missing but unsure if it would be rude to question. “Down deep, deep in the Underground resides my most brilliant discovery and invention: the Core.”

“Excuse me, doctor, but how can it be both?”

“As always, the doctor proves himself to be a walking complication,” your dad sighs good naturedly, and your worry about this somehow offending Gaster is instantly snuffed out when the man in question chuckles. 

“Aptly put,” the monster nods. “The details vary with each reality, but in this one when monsterkind descended into the deep and dark, the Core was already there waiting, ripe for the picking!” His dark eyes shine, pupils so like Sans’ growing wide and round in his head. It was kind of adorable, watching as someone before you gradually gets caught up in something that very obviously drives them as a person. 

“Advanced technology, just waiting to be potentially exploited and used for everything it was worth,” he exclaims, his voice dropping into a growl. Gaster’s hands are like claws as he raises him, a darkness flitting over his features that at once reminds you of a mad scientist in his basement just having concocted something especially malicious. Then it’s gone. The sudden return to his innocently detached aura is almost cartoonish and you’re almost certain that you already adore this man. 

“Sorry, lost in the moment there. Or a different lifetime, as it were,” he says lightly, waving a hand with some amusement. 

“What is the Core,” you ask, looking between your parents and him. “I remember at the First Introduction that the king and the president said they hoped for a sharing of cultures and their respective technology, for the sake of our future together.”

The First Introduction was a formal greeting to the world from the king himself, with the president of the country in attendance, as well as several other world powers. It happened in Ebott City, near the capitol building, and there King Asgore gave his speech about wanting to move forward for the sake of his people. To put behind past grievances for the sake of both monster and humankind. The king was grim in his wording, but given the circumstances of both the past, the present, and the possible future, many possible futures even, it was altogether understandable you think.

When a mention of a exchange of power was presented, your mind automatically flew to what humankind would try to seek out and take for themselves. Magic was an obvious one, one that up until recently, you didn’t think you all were actually still capable of actually grasping.  _ The irony in that should be hilarious, I think.  _

“The Core is essentially the heart of the Underground,” Gaster speaks up against your darkening thought process, and you refocus on the matter at hand. “Using the geothermal energy of the surrounding magma flow of Hotland and the ambient, concentrated energy of magic given off by the monster residents surrounding it, it provided our society with every means of surviving the depths for as long as we did. Of course, it didn’t all come quickly, but the Core is a magnificent thing,” he sighs, something wistful about the sound, and with it his eyes once again extinguished. 

“You mentioned that the king turned off the electricity Underground,” you say to Sans, recalling your discussion from earlier, and connecting the dots. “Did you mean the Core?”

“yeah,” Sans says, sounding reluctant to contribute. “the core isn’t off exactly, but certain functions were put on hold with everyone moving up top.”

“Outputting electricity was only one of many provinces of the Core. It also provided purified drinking water, expurgated unwanted matter from consumables, et cetera,” Gaster’s smile stretches into something paper thin. “Imperative as those processes were, it was also capable of so much more.” His grin snaps back to its former shape. “Unfortunately my attempts at tapping into those detonated with my demise.” 

“it literally killed you,” Sans grates out harshly, and Gaster’s expression doesn’t falter: “Given that it is an inert machine I had to be complicit for that to occur.”

“alright,” you blink, eyes following Sans as he’s standing beside you, hands on the table, and skull positively thunderous. “you have fun talking about this, i’m out.”

There isn’t time to even consider saying his name, let alone stop him from leaving. One moment Sans is next to you in the booth, the next he isn’t, and you turn abruptly around in your own seat when Gaster’s flitting eyes give away where he’s gone. Sans’ back is towards you as he moves towards the bar, a smoldering Grillby standing behind it, and not so much as twitching from cleaning the same glass again, and again as Sans approaches. 

The distance is considerable, but the amount of ire coming off from that side of the bar is absolutely palpable, and nothing about what WingDings Gaster just more than implied makes it all as funny as it could be under different circumstances. 

“Yes, let’s clear the air, shall we,” Gaster himself speaks up, stealing back your attention, and you settle back into your booth.

“Doctor-.”

“I tried to kill myself.”

“He hasn’t changed.”

Sans’ bottle smacks against the counter, plastic hitting wood in a way that’s irritatingly unsatisfying. “dunno how you can say that about a guy that switches between personas like clockwork,” he bites out, still leaning into his hand and looking away from the flaming bartender. 

“Flighty as hell,” Grillby replies quitely, and Sans turns an eye to see that his own sunspots are faintly narrowed with thought rather than tired anger like the skeleton near him. “Sounds like your dad.”

Grillby’s chin lifts as someone approaches from behind, and Sans straightens into a slump rather than an exhausted decline as you set yourself down on the stool next to him. Your eyes a little wide, a frown causing your lips to remain parted by a fraction, and Sans relates immediately to how your feeling before you can say a thing. 

“how’s it hanging?”

“I’m a touch overwhelmed,” you say to him, not turning your head, but looking up when Grillby sets down a glass of clear liquid on the countertop. Sans raises a brow bone at the gesture, but Grillby ignores him. Maybe it’s his dad in the room making the spitfire soft, but he’s got the brains to not comment on it without a few drinks in him first. You take a pull of your own, but Sans wouldn’t be surprised if you did it because it was given to you, rather then because you wanted it at all. 

“he spill the beans about everything.”

“I...suppose,” you say skeptically, and finally those round eyes of yours blink up to his sockets. “He spoke of the magic he found in the underground, the kind that binds whole galaxies together while also existing between the molecules of the skin of our very fingers,” you say, trailing off as you look at your own, covered hand. Dropping it, the trance your under breaks, and you tilt your head briefly. “Well, Dust, in your case and that of monsters.”

“yeah, pretty serious stuff,” Sans says without really feeling it, and the mustard tastes bland on his conjured tongue when he gives it another taste. Stars how he wish he could ask for something stronger, but a hangover isn’t going to make tomorrow any damn easier. 

“Void magic, existing everywhere and at every time at once. It was killing him, and then he fell into the Core.”

“falling is a pretty necessary part of jumping,” Sans mutters sarcastically, not bothering to curb his attitude even with you, but you don’t even look offended about it. Just worried. 

“Sans-.”

“my dad was guilty about me being born and tried to off himself.  _ that’s all there is to it _ , pol. and i ain’t freakin’ happy about it!” The countertop shakes as he lets his fists fall, and Grillby has the time to finally look upset about something. “half the time he ain’t even here. he’s still in that damn machine or space or some other alternate universe or whatever and it’s really damn hard to tell someone that not being around isn’t going to help anything if he can’t be sure which kid he’s talking to!”

Whatever you were going to say is gone, dying in your mouth before he has the chance to hear it, but Sans doesn’t want to feel guilty about it. He has too much shit on his head and,  _ damnit _ , there it is anyways. He sighs out thinly, but fails to come up with some way of salvaging the situation. The last thing he wanted was to risk screwing up what he has with you right now, stars knows it’s probably the best thing he has, even if it makes the least amount of sense. 

You’re looking at the countertop, hands in your lap when you speak up for him. “I noticed how mercurial he is. His very figure seemed to change with each topic. Is this always the case,” you ask him, removing your gaze from the bar, and Sans sees what you’re doing. You’re trying to understand, to work your mind around something that’s pretty obvious in how big of a deal it is to him despite that he’s never really talked about it before. 

You’d asked, but he’d avoided going into detail. As far as he was concerned his hangup over his dad wasn’t about to be added to the load he’d already dropped on your shoulders. You were supposed to be a safe space for him, a place away from the catastrophe that is his life, but so far Sans has done a shit job at keeping it that way. 

“he has good days and bad ones,” Sans replies to your question, then chuckles without really finding anything about this funny. Running his eyelights over the label of his bottle, Sans notices the printing of foreign lettering under the English there on the paper, trailing behind in tandem but completely unreadable for him at the same time. “the more he focuses on one thing in this timeline the more put together he is. but when he gets distracted he sorta,” Sans motions with one hand, wobbling the appendage, and you nod. Sans didn’t want to say out loud that his dad kind of looks like pudding sometimes, but...yeah, his dad looks like pudding sometimes. “he’s not unhappy though, you know. if he’s actually upset and lost in it all at once he breaks up. glitches, honestly. can be hard to bring him back.”

Sans sighs out again, deeper now, and he wishes he could sink into himself and disappear right then. Maybe that’d make it easier. “i love my dad, pol. and he has himself convinced that he’s the only one that failed here.”

“Sans, you were a child,” you say, a quiet plea in your voice, and he doesn’t shake your hand off when it goes to rest on his arm. He’d rather do quite the opposite, take it, and pull you closer. Bury his face in your chest and breathe in the grounding, gravity defying, impracality of your existence. But he’s sitting at his favorite bar in town, and for angel’s sake, he’d rather make it a year without almost crying in front of its poor, long suffering bar keeper. 

“there’s nothing wrong with my dad. he’s still the same air headed, science freak from before, but he won’t stop apologizing. thought staying under that rock was all he deserved for potentially sentencing his kids to the same fate. but it’s less overwhelming then the rest of the world is, so i don’t ask any different.”

“Is that what that was?”

Sans looks to you, trying to decipher what you mean, and you go on with this small prompting. An honest question is shining in those eyes of yours, and Sans knows he’s a sucker for when you get all warm and glowy. 

“When he saw you at the precinct Sans, he changed so drastically,” you say, shifting in your chain until you’re facing him, and you grow closer as you go on. “It was only for a moment, but when I saw him as we left the office, he was absolutely  _ haunting _ , Sans.”

_ “i’ll swing by and pick you up tomorra’,” Sans was saying as the left the office, his arm still over your head as he held the door open for you to leave. Your dad had opted to stay behind and talk to Cohen for a moment, and you’d been focused on accepting Sans’ idea up until your stomach had dropped into your shoes. _

_ Your attention snapped to the figure across the room. It was instinct that immediately pulled your eyes to Gaster’s looming, dark cut in existence. His very presence seemed to shift and shudder, the alieness making your vision swim and the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand _

_ Then he changed. _

_ The reaching hands of his presence that threatened to fill your senses with nerve tingling fear literally melted away, Gaster losing inches of height, and the world regaining sound, light, color. The man you approached was no longer a life threatening eldritch horror. He was a man with a smile like a crescent moon, and eyes like twin eclipses on a backdrop of cracked white. You couldn’t help but be instantly enthralled with him. But faintly, on the edges of your subconscious, something life sustaining and lizard like about your most primitive self stood ready to run the instant it was required. _

_ The more intelligent, and composed part of your person knew running wouldn’t be an option.  _

“But when he saw you, that vanished into nothing!”

“spit it out slick, my dad weirds you out.”

“He could snap me like a twig if he wished,” you don’t hesitate to say, a faint, gloating smirk playing along Sans’ teeth. “But you help keep him here, Sans.”

“what are you tryin’ to get at?”

“I think...and I concur with your previous statement about me hardly being any good at this, but,” discomfort flickers back across his skull, but you keep going, “I think the best thing for him in this life Sans are his sons.” 

“i..-”

“Which you are one of, by the way,” you press with a smile, and wonderfully, Sans’ frown breaks a little.

“pol it’s pretty obvious you’re tryin’ to say that none of us did anything wrong and we should sit around a campfire and sing songs or something.”

“And voila!” You wave your hands at Grillby and the bartender twitches. “All you need now are little marshmellows-!”

“Wave a stick at me and you burn.”

“He’s threatening us with maiming, he must be in agreement!”

“ _ pft,  _ where did i find you again,” Sans asks, but he’s laughing through his sharp teeth, and you can’t help how much more certain you know that this has to be right. 

“I found you, remember,” you say, propping your elbow on the counter and leaning into one of your hands. Grillby groans off to the side and you send him a sparkling smile as he stalks away. Returning your gaze to Sans, you soak in the way he’s grinning at you know. He’s still obviously tired, and the two of you have to be ready early tomorrow, but you hope you could help him make up for it in the future. 

“In the coffeeshop, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“yeah, cuz’ you got a fetish for different.”

“That’s very true! Speaking of,” you glance across the room, back to the booth where your parents still sit chatting. When you left them behind they’d quickly fallen into conversation over the case, but you needed some time away to process things. Your own parents, they hadn’t at all been caught off guard by Gaster’s words, but they had seemed pretty familiar with the scientist from the get-go. In the short time since the monsters arrival from the mountain, how much of a history had they managed to build up exactly?

“Your father is by far the most astonishing one of you all! Is he single?”

“ _ p-p-p you can’t be serious!”  _ Sans nearly shouts, sending you into a successful peal of laughter, while he continues to fidget in his seat. “pol! my dad’s off limits! c-c’mon, stop laughing-!” 

“Sans, I was kidding.” As your laughter tapers off, you reach forward again, taking one of his hands where it’s firmly planted on a knee, and peering up into that wonderfully red face of his. “You must know there’s only one monster I’m interested in right now,” you say to him, ending with a wink. But Sans doesn’t take the bait, at least not in the way you expected him to.

Instead of reeling back into an embarrassed grumble, Sans’ face looms closer to yours, your teasing smile faltering at once, his eye lights shining deeply, steadily into your own. 

“yeah, i remember,” he says, the lilt of his grin sending a shiver down your spine and across the surface of your skin, and instead of holding his hand, he’s got both of yours trapped in his own and you can’t find it in yourself to want to pull away. 

“told you you’re mine, slick, and i ain’t goin to lose you easy to no one, no how.”

You’re smiling again, you know you are, the movement of your lips, the heat of your skin. How could you not be smiling? The distance between the two of you is smaller now, it’s growing smaller by the day, but something selfish, wanting, in you wishes that the physical space could lessen as well. By leaps, by bounds, and you’re afraid, you! The one with the fear of physical touch! would move to quickly then he would want. But Sans is right here, before you, and he’s not letting go of your hands, is he? And that burning in his sockets, it’s so very real-.

“Helvetica is a classic,” comes a voice, and Sans’ keeps moving, his skull coming to rest on your shoulder, and the fabric of your shirt not at all muffling his groan. “Futura, literally so,” Gaster points out from beside you, and, for once, your welcoming grin is minutely less sincere then the norm. “But with all the human involved, Charlotte is just as well!”

“please,” Sans whispers into your throat, and woe is to fate that it couldn’t be under different circumstances. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowie, look at the time. sorry about the wait guys, but there was some messy scheduling at work and i was actually hurt on the job! i'm okay now, only a few new scars to add to the lot and if wings can make it look good, why can't i?  
> on the note of wings, i mentioned at the end of tsb that i'm asking you all to vote on my next big story! i have fics being plotted for underfell, underswap, and swapfell, and even a possible sister story to tsb focused on a certain grumpy fry cook and his human best friend. comment if you're interested in any one of those!

**Author's Note:**

> To view translations for foreign words and phrases, hover briefly over the text!  
> Beautiful fan art from beautiful people（*´▽｀*):  
>  **letsallbecalmchaps**  
>  -http://letsallbecalmchaps.tumblr.com/post/157398547266/treacherousthoughts-someone-doesnt-want-a-hug (ch.7)  
> The playlist that helped inspire the story: https://play.spotify.com/user/12120420348/playlist/4JgdAiuW1ehUobV6awJanV
> 
> I'll be super happy to answer any questions you have on my tumblr!  
> Follow me at Treacherousthoughts.tumblr.com!


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